


Separate Ways

by PepperPrints



Series: Separate Ways [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Courtship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Found Family, Happy Ending, M/M, Marriage, Slow Burn, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:14:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 80,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22339102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: With Moff Gideon defeated and the Darksaber reclaimed, the rumours of newly named Mand'alor Din Djarin spread through the galaxy... along with the stories of the Child he carries with him. Determined to meet him, Luke Skywalker arrives on Mandalore -- but before he can get any closer, he has to prove himself worthy of Mandalorian standards.
Relationships: The Armorer (The Mandalorian TV)/Cara Dune, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Luke Skywalker
Series: Separate Ways [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693738
Comments: 1215
Kudos: 4789





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [restlesslikeme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/restlesslikeme/gifts).



> There are a few things I should address with this. For one, I'm a very casual Star Wars fan in regards to the vast majority of lore there is out there. However, given that canon creators love to talk over each other and erase preexisting content without discretion, I figure I'm allowed some slack too. I'll be upfront that I'm not trying to fit this in within sequel-trilogy established storylines, because that's too much of a headache and this is mostly a post-ROTJ/Mandalorian-adjacent AU regardless. All in all, I am just doing my best with what's out there and trying to have a fun time.
> 
> That being said, I am going to try to accommodate this by following as much established Mandalorian culture as I can while also trying to acknowledge how the show has either disregarded or twisted some of that around.
> 
> Lastly, this is written for Parker (as always). Specials thanks to Paul, who is an actual loremaster that is always endlessly tolerant of my clarifying questions.

“I really can’t convince you to stay, can I?”

Considering Luke already has his flight suit on, with one hand clasped on the ladder to climb his way into his X-wing, Leia’s question surely answers itself. Still, seeing her looking at him like  _ that _ is terribly effective as a deterrent -- and she absolutely knows it. Slumping his shoulders, Luke crosses the short distance to where she, Han, and Chewie wait. 

“You know why I have to go,” Luke reminds reluctantly. 

“And you know why I’m worried,” Leia counters. “The Mandalorians have wanted to take back their home for decades now, and they’ve just started putting down roots again. How do you think they’re going to react to the New Republic knocking on their door?” 

“I’m not on Republic business,” Luke points out, as if it’s as simple as that, and Leia frowns at him, but Han speaks first. 

“I mean, she’s got a point, kid,” he offers, shrugging his shoulders. “Everyone’s talking about the Mando taking an Imp’s head off with his own sword and calling himself king.” 

Fixing a deliberate look at Han, Chewie growls, and Han cranes his head up to look at him skeptically. “Ancestral birthright?” Han parrots sarcastically, eyes rolling. “Yeah. Okay. Sure, buddy. The Mando took the Imp’s head off with his  _ reclaimed ancestral birthright _ . That sounds much less terrifying and very friendly, actually. That changes everything; Luke should definitely go.” 

Despite himself, Luke smirks a little as Chewie and Han bicker. That’s certainly the popular version of the story — but popular doesn’t mean accurate. It just means the most exciting version gets passed around in bars. He doesn’t doubt that there was a fight, and there’s simple evidence to confirm the Grand Moff’s demise… but something tells him each retelling gets more and more violent; building the Mandalorian’s reputation into something fearsome. 

Of all the different tales, the version that Luke is partial to has one important detail, and the feeling in his chest resonates with an undeniable significance. 

Still smiling faintly in the corner of his mouth, Luke nods at Chewie. “He’s right, Han,” he says, not argumentative but matter of fact. “That sword belongs to their people — to the ruler of their people — and he’s called Mand’alor; not king. I’ve been doing research.”

Raising his brows, Han scoffs and stretches his arm around Leia. “Oh, see? He’s been doing research.” Han nods with mock seriousness, squeezing her shoulder fondly as he drawls. “He’s an expert now, Princess, why worry?” 

“What I’m saying is,” Leia interjects impatiently, rolling her shoulder to dislodge Han’s hand and stepping closer to Luke instead. “They’re going to be defensive. The Republic  _ will  _ reach out to Mandalore, but give them time. Otherwise they’ll just see it as an attempt to be conquered.” 

Luke can understand the concern. Leia knows her politics, and there isn’t the most inviting history surrounding Mandalore. Then there’s Han: who, of all people, has an unpleasant connection with Mandalorians.

Or just one in particular, maybe.

Still. 

Luke knows it sounds foolish. Even with Leia, who feels more of the Force than she likes to admit, it’s hard to make his motivations not sound ridiculously irresponsible. He can’t explain how he just  _ knows _ that he needs to go, and he  _ knows  _ that he feels no danger there. 

Just the opposite: what he feels is hope. 

Realizing she’s gaining no ground, Leia sighs and touches his arm. “Be careful,” she emphasizes firmly.

“I will be,” Luke promises without hesitation, though Leia looks terribly unconvinced. She gives him a knowing look as he leans towards her, placing a chaste peck on her cheek. “But I have to go.” 

“What? No kiss for me?” Han mocks and Luke laughs as a big hand ruffles through his hair. “Don’t let some bounty hunter take you as a trophy, okay? You got me, Jedi Master?” 

“Okay,” Luke repeats indulgently, his breath subsequently stolen as Chewbacca gathers him up in his arms and squeezes. “Yeah, big guy, I’ll miss you too.” 

When he’s finally released, Luke climbs into the X-Wing, where R2-D2 waits with a series of excited beeps. “I’m coming,” Luke assures, pulling his helmet on. “Do you have the coordinates set?” 

Artoo whistles affirmatively, and Luke grins, strapping himself in. 

“All right then,” he replies, his hands fixing firmly on the controls. “We’re going to Mandalore.” 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My name is Luke Skywalker,” Luke explains, his tone level and self-assured. “I’m a Jedi Knight, and I’m here seeking an audience with the Mand’alor.” He’s planned this speech in his head, so its delivery is remarkably smooth. “Once he’s heard what I have to say, if he decides that he wants me to go, I will honour his wishes and you’ll never see me again. But I don’t intend to leave without being heard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is being uploaded very quickly to make up for the brevity of the prologue... and to get Din present, naturally.
> 
> In this house we acknowledge that surely some Mandos must know what Jedi/Sith are, since realistically it wasn't that long ago.

In the wake of the Empire’s purge, Mandalore -- which was once a great nation of conquerors and warriors -- isn’t left with much. After the people were left scattered, defeated, and run into hiding… Luke can’t imagine how significant the journey back here must be to them. The idea is haunting and sobering in equal measure, and Leia’s warnings stick firmly in his head.

In the most obvious way, this planet reminds him of Tatooine. The vast majority of it is unforgiving desert, but (unlike Tatooine) there is some greenery -- though it’s clearly struggling to thrive. It’s an unpleasant analogy: similar enough to the people here, trying to resettle their roots. 

Respectfully, Luke lands the X-Wing a careful distance away from his destination. Through the vast, white dunes of Mandalore, several of these dome cities remain in various states of disarray, but this is the only location where the X-Wing’s scanners found any signs of life. 

Even though every inch of Luke’s body urged him to go to Mandalore, there was always the slim chance he could be wrong; that he misread a signal or fell too deeply into a rumor. The moment he lands, however, there’s no room for doubt, and feeling it for the first time fills Luke’s chest to the point where it aches like it might burst.

There _is_ someone here, and the Force is with them. 

“Stay with the ship, Artoo,” Luke commands, though the series of whistles he receives in response sound decidedly uncertain. 

Drawing his hood up over his head, Luke makes the trek on foot. It isn’t treacherous terrain, and frankly, he isn’t keen on making himself subtle either. He would rather be seen coming: which isn’t difficult, when he’s a spot of stark black against pearly sand. 

In contrast, there's no sign of any Mandalorian. Logic tells him there should be a scout, surely, but ...to the credit of the Mandalorians, Luke doesn’t see them in the slightest. He _feels_ it first, before a voice calls out and he finds himself staring down the barrel of a blaster.

It takes less time than Luke anticipates. To start, it’s just one woman, clad in dark armour and heavily armed. Three others join, looking no less intimidating, and Luke has a feeling there’s more -- but they simply haven’t chosen to expose themselves.

A command is spoken, and it’s one not covered in the Alliance’s very minor archives on Mandalorian tongue. Naturally. Context gleans enough, and Luke raises his hands obligingly, though the gesture moves his cloak too: exposing the lightsaber that’s strapped against his hip.

Her helmet tilts, and Luke has to admire how he feels glared at even without seeing her eyes. 

“ _Darjetii_ ,” she accuses in an undertone, and luckily that’s a word that Luke recognizes. _Sith_. He supposes he can’t blame her for the assumption, given his choice of clothing.

Shaking his head, Luke keeps his hands up. “ _Burc’ya_ ,” he corrects firmly. 

Of all the responses Luke anticipates, it’s not for the Mandalorian to laugh at him. Maybe it’s his pronunciation butchering the phrase, or maybe it’s the notion behind it altogether, but he’s tickled her enough to switch to Basic.

“What are you doing here, then?” she asks, coldly mocking, keeping her weapon firmly raised. “ _Friend_?”

Well. There’s no reason to be anything but transparent. “My name is Luke Skywalker,” Luke explains, his tone level and self-assured. “I’m a Jedi Knight, and I’m here seeking an audience with the Mand’alor.” He’s planned this speech in his head, so its delivery is remarkably smooth. “Once he’s heard what I have to say, if he decides that he wants me to go, I will honour his wishes and you’ll never see me again. But I don’t intend to leave without being heard.”

There are no tricks coupled with his speech; Luke wouldn’t dare the disrespect. Considering the reputations following Mandalorians, he doubts the effort would get him very far anyway -- and besides, his boldness might actually be considered endearing. 

Hopefully. Unless he just earns himself a shot in the knee for his effort.

Instead, she scoffs at him. Taking a few steps closer, she removes his lightsaber from his hip, and (though not without reluctance) Luke lets her. Resting her blaster against her shoulder, she speaks in Mando’a and nods at her companions: one who runs ahead of them after being passed Luke’s weapon, and two who take up their positions at Luke’s back. 

“Keep your hands up,” she tells him firmly, turning to lead the way, “Jedi Knight.”

Luke stays silent as he’s brought into the city. The structures are mostly intact, but their battered history shows through in little ways. Some damage is hastily fixed, and some would be impossible to spot if the replacement metalworking wasn’t an explicitly different sheen than what surrounds it. Clearly, this city was chosen due to its integrity; it seems to have suffered the least under the Empire’s assault. 

To his surprise, the building he’s led to isn’t grander than any of the others here. If anything, it seems to be selected merely for its size; an old council room meagerly revised to suit the needs of their new city. A semicircle of chairs are placed deliberately in the middle of the room, giving the vision of important discussions, shared plans. Directly across from the entrance to the hall is the tallest seat -- not quite a throne, it doesn’t seem nearly opulent enough to merit the word, but its ornate carved arms and tall wooden back leave no question as to where the head of the council is.

Seated there now is a sombre figure cloaked in dark grey, with two Mandalorians framing him on either side. To his left, the scout stands, bowed forward as he speaks in low, hurried Mando’a, and to his right, there’s a woman listening intently, with her helmet cast in striking gold and a fur lining her shoulders.

Passing the lightsaber on, the scout departs, and Luke is ushered forward before the two who remain. 

To his surprise, both Mandalorians move to stand as he enters, and Luke finds himself struck, staring at the man across from him. 

As Luke looks at him, something strange pulls at the centre of his chest. There’s a feeling he can’t quite define and he can’t call it dread, but it makes him nervous all the same. The man in grey holds Luke’s lightsaber in his hands, helmet bowed as if considering, and there’s something oddly gently in how he turns it over in his hands. 

Without a question, and despite his relative modesty in comparison to the other warrior with him, Luke knows this is the Mand’alor. The man who slaid Moff Gideon and called his people back to their rightful home; the man who surely has the Darksaber hidden under the folds of his cloak.

There’s nothing really kingly about him by appearance. No crown. No finery. Nothing that makes him more elegant or indulgent than any other Mandalorian that Luke’s encountered so far. The Beskar that protects him gleams with obvious care, but it still feels practical, rather than any sort of posturing. 

Something in his presence, though, is what makes the difference. Luke looks at him, and he sees him for exactly who he is; what he represents and what he’s capable of. It seems to radiate off of him like an aura, striking Luke right in the center of his chest.

He doesn’t speak, and if he looks at Luke, it’s difficult to tell. His companion, however, watches him openly, and she addresses him first. 

“You can lower your hands now,” she allows patiently. “Jedi Knight.”

Luke takes the permission gladly, neatly folding his fingers in front of himself instead, his thumbs meeting in an arch. “Thank you for meeting me,” he says, and the woman cocks her head.

“Your gratitude is a bit misplaced,” she tells him simply, her voice steady and cool, “given that you declared your refusal to leave without an audience... it seems you’ve left us little choice in the matter.”

Perhaps.

Luke dares a step forward, his cloak billowing around his feet. “I don’t mean for my intentions to be mistaken for aggression,” Luke explains earnestly. “I’m--”

“I know what you are.”

The sound of the Mand’alor’s voice catches Luke off guard. It’s… softer than Luke expects, quiet in the metallic echo of his helmet, but by no means _weak_. Just the opposite: the low timbre of his voice only gives it more power, each word feeling deliberately spoken. 

“I know what your intentions are,” he continues coldly, strapping Luke’s lightsaber to his belt, “and you are not welcome here.” 

Luke stays very still. As much as he can, he tries to meet the Mand’alor’s gaze, which feels piercing even through the visor. As unyielding as the helmet may be, his emotions flow off of him in waves. For a moment, Luke can’t quite connect the image of the man before him and what he feels radiating off of him so powerfully. It’s _fear_. Not fear of Luke, necessarily. Not as a single figure. It’s different than that. It’s what Luke _represents..._

It just doesn’t seem to fit. Luke can’t quite reconcile the image of the man in front of him, and the sheer, unbridled reaction that his own presence has drawn out of him.

“I don’t want things to be like the old ways,” Luke clarifies, quickly but confidently. “There’s no need for a war. There’s no more Jedi for the Mandalorians to even have a conflict with--”

“Except for you,” the Mand’alor points out bluntly. “You and the ones you’d take in. The ones who you abduct into your order. Isn’t that right?” 

Oh.

All at once, it fits into place. 

The rumors were never clear. Stories get muddied and dramaticized too deeply to be given any real credit, and many of them attributed the strange, unnatural phenomenon witnessed at Moff Gideon’s death to the Mandalorian himself. Luke had a feeling that wouldn’t be the case, but somehow he never considered the simplest explanation. 

That fear: the kind of terror that can only be known by a parent at risk of losing what’s most precious to them. 

“It’s your child,” Luke utters in realization, his voice faint. “Isn’t it?”

Fear, and now an undeniable fury that feels so powerful that Luke wonders if he could burn under his stare. 

“My child,” he confirms darkly. “My people. My creed. And no outsider is going to come near him.”

Luke’s throat feels tight and he hopes his face doesn’t reveal how his heart hammers in his chest. It isn’t intimidation that makes his pulse race; Luke isn’t nervous -- though maybe he rightfully should be -- but something about the simmering fury in the Mand’alor’s voice sets him off centre. He almost dares another step, almost speaks, but another voice cuts in before he gets the chance. 

“He needn’t be an outsider,” the woman muses, and the Mand’alor whips his head around to look at her.

“He--” comes the start of a protest, but she continues forward as if she doesn’t hear him.

“Jedi,” she says, coming towards Luke without flinching. “Our Mand’alor will not let his son be taught by an outsider. However, the way of the Mandalorian is open to any who wish to learn the Creed, who adhere to it earnestly, and walk the path without flinching. Do you understand?”

“That isn’t what I meant,” the Mand’alor insists hotly, though his companion keeps her helmet turned firmly on Luke. “I wasn’t making him an _offer_.”

“The Creed isn’t an offer to be given or denied at anyone’s leisure,” she corrects, as if reminding. “Even the Mand’alor. It is to be followed or failed. This Jedi has as much right to it as any other.”

Luke’s chest twists. For a moment, he isn’t sure if the two of them will fight — but the woman holds her ground and the Mand’alor does not protest again. 

This is more than what Luke bargained for. He didn’t come here expecting an easy encounter, by any means, but this arrangement is something else altogether. Does he have a choice, really? This is the first whisper of the Force he’s encountered in all of his desperate searching, and after all this time… what would he be willing to do to see this through?

_Anything_. 

Without hesitation, surprising even himself, Luke answers: “I’ll learn.” 

Though there’s no way to tell, Luke wonders if she’s smiling under her helmet as she tilts her head back towards the Mand’alor. “This is the Way,” she recites smoothly. 

“This is the Way,” he parrots with obvious reluctance, his voice tight, and at his sides, his hands form fists. 

His gaze is fixed on Luke; Luke doesn’t need his face to be able to tell. Every inch of him is tensed, and the maelstrom of emotion that storms in his chest is almost enough to drown in. Luke hasn’t ever felt anything like it, and it pulses through his chest with an undefinable agony. 

“Put him with the Foundlings,” he orders curtly, and turning on his heel, he’s gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The child in the Mand’alor’s arms is barely more than a handful. He doesn’t look old enough to even speak, but the feeling that radiates out from him hits Luke like a punch to the back of his skull. Tucked against the polished gleam of the Mand’alor’s Beskar, the Child gazes up at his father with obvious adoration, tiny hands reaching as if he can’t get close enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of this fic, and for reconciling preexisting canon, I'm going with the common assumption that some Mandalorian tribes go by the helmet rule and some do not. Otherwise... that's a whole lot of canon that's null and void. 
> 
> As ever, Parker is responsible for editing these chapters for me, and I can never be grateful enough for that.

Long after he’s left, the echo of the Mand’alor’s rage still lurks on Luke’s mind like a bruise. He feels foolish for not realizing the situation sooner. The connection is obvious, so why didn’t he see it? Did the idea of finding an apprentice really short out his better senses? Luke is meant to be a Jedi Master, and he’s already lost in his own head… and now he’s gotten himself tangled up in a Creed that he knows absolutely no details of, much less whether or not its standards are something he can actually live up to.

Abruptly, a fatal thought pushes to the forefront of his mind: _Leia is going to kill me_.

“You’ll have your own lodgings while you’re here,” the woman explains as they walk together through the city. When the Mand’alor stormed away, she took it upon herself to see to Luke without even flinching. “You can bring your droid and dock your ship more closely, should you wish.” 

Embarrassed by his own very meager attempts at discretion, Luke bends his head. “Thank you,” he says, hesitating for a moment before he continues. “... for everything. For giving me this chance. I appreciate it more than I can say.” 

“It’s no great favour,” she explains simply, although Luke thinks he can hear bemusement in the metallic drawl of her voice. “If you wish to learn, that is your right. This is the Way.” 

Luke lingers on that for a moment, wondering at the turn of phrase but not feeling headstrong enough to ask just yet. He’s already been enough of a nuisance for one day.

There’s no real subtlety in how they’re stared at as they walk together, and Luke wonders if she’s really come with him for his own protection. He’s certainly sparked the temper of their leader -- he can’t imagine that the Mand’alor is the only one who feels strongly about a Jedi arriving on this planet, given what he’s read of their shared history. 

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Luke says boldly, and she turns her head towards him, the peaks of her horned helmet glinting in the sun as the walk. 

“You may,” she replies easily. “Whether I answer it or not is another matter.” 

“Your relationship with the Mand’alor…” Luke starts, before uncertainty gets the better of him and he trails off.

“You’re curious as to how I could speak to him so boldly,” she concludes with a tilt of her helmet, and Luke nods, watching her studiously. 

“The Mand’alor is sole ruler but no _dictator,_ ” She tells him, almost chiding. “His role is to be the voice of Mandalore and serve its people... and he is not infallible.” 

She waits a beat, perhaps just to see heat rise to Luke’s face, before she continues: “I am not his partner, if that is your real question; I am among his oldest companions and he often calls on me for my council. If he did not want to hear it, he could dismiss me at any time.”

Luke winces a little, embarrassed by his own assumptions. There’s some relief that she didn’t resort to insubordination on Luke’s behalf, but it still doesn’t ease the guilt churning in Luke’s stomach. “I didn’t mean to bring his anger on you,” he says apologetically. 

“If you’re concerned that he will no longer see fit to take my council, then so be it,” she replies, shrugging one heavy shoulder carelessly. “I am an armorer and I would much rather tend to my work than be tied to political affairs.” Turning her head, she gazes at Luke more directly.

“There are not many of us left who know the craft. I am sure I don’t need to explain the importance of preserving the old ways to you, Jedi.” 

Luke gazes at her, trying to feel what’s denied to him by the impassive shield of her helmet. Is that it? Did she feel kindred with Luke, somehow? Luke dismisses the idea almost as soon as it appears. That isn’t quite it. There’s no reason for her to feel inclined to preserve the Jedi line, even if she can sympathize with the threat of extinction. 

Then what is it?

The thought lingers on him, but he’s forced to shelve it as they approach his lodgings. The house she shows him is modest enough: a kitchen, a refresher and a bed. Its walls are sturdy, clean, and there’s plenty of space for one man and a droid to rest comfortably. Luke honestly couldn’t ask for more. 

“If you should find it not to your liking, I can move you easily,” the Armorer offers. The implication, he realizes, is grim: there’s plenty of empty houses here on Mandalore. 

“Though, keep in mind, its location played in important part of my decision to place you here.”

The hint lands easily enough: the two of them walked very, very far away from anyone else. Shaking his head, Luke smiles at her. “No, this is perfect; thank you,” he says sincerely.

“Good,” she says. “Make yourself comfortable and I’ll return for you at nightfall.”

“Nightfall?” Luke pauses. “I’m to start training already?”

“No, but you should eat,” the Armorer says dully, and though her tone stays flat, Luke can tell she’s mocking him. “You’re walking the path of the Mandalore; you eat at our tables now.”

Oh. He doesn’t realize it until she says it, but that’s true, isn’t it? He’s part of their community now, and he’s going to be expected to play the part. That should be fine; Luke has no trouble being a polite, discreet guest, however… something in the depths of Luke’s chest twists, and he can’t help himself from asking. 

“Will the Mand’alor be there?” 

For several seconds, she simply looks at him, and she doesn’t answer. 

“Nightfall, _hibir_ ,” she reminds.

\--

As promised, the Armorer returns for him when the sun goes down. She doesn’t speak much this time, and Luke doesn’t bother her with questions on the walk back towards the more densely populated part of the city. She leads him to a great hall, and the doors open to a great clamouring crowd: what must be every Mandalorian in this city gathered in together. 

For a moment, Luke is quietly awed. This is the Mand’alor’s work realized: he’s brought all these people back, given them a home, and is keeping them safe. There’s not one discernible feature shared uniquely between everyone gathered here; a testament to the strength of Mandalorian Creed. 

The funny thing is that Luke can observe those features at all, actually. He frowns, eyes scanning the room, and he wonders if there’s something he’s missed. Touching his arm to get his attention, the Armorer raises her voice to be heard over the noise.

“You’ll sit with the other students,” she explains, and as Luke follows her instructions, she also draws a chair up beside him. Maybe to keep an eye on him, but Luke’s instinct tells him it’s to _protect_ him from trouble, rather than worrying that he might _start_ it. 

Though, it would make sense for her to be protective: this is a table full of Mandalore’s youngest and most vulnerable people. At least, that’s Luke’s first impression. As he settles in and looks around, he’s surprised to find that he’s not the oldest person gathered around the food that’s been set out for them. Instead there seems to be people of all ages and genders, some laughing and conversing amongst themselves like family, others more subdued. 

There has to be nearly two dozen people at this table alone, and while the majority is made up of the kids who cluster together, Luke finds himself caught on the others closer to his own age, wondering how they ended up here alongside him.

“Spouses, mostly,” the Armorer explains, noticing Luke’s stare as she reaches across the table to collect a pitcher of water. Without asking or waiting for Luke’s permission, she pours him a glass. “When the Mand’alor called the wayward tribes back, many wished to bring their families with them. Others were drawn to the creed for their own reasons. They’ll all be training the same as you are.”

As if realizing he’s the subject of conversation, a man on the other side of the table beams at them, his dark eyes twinkling kindly. “ _Olarom_!” he greets, raising his drink, and Luke repeats the greeting with an awed smile of his own, before he turns back to the Armorer. 

“There’s more people here than I expected,” Luke tells her, gesturing to indicate to the room around them. 

“There are more Mandalorians than most of us expected,” she says matter-of-factly, reaching across the table, she drags the food closer. Again, without needing or wanting Luke’s input, she places a generous amount of steaming food on his plate. “Many more escaped the Purge than we initially believed; at the time, there was no way to tell without risking exposure. Until the planet was reclaimed and named our sanctuary, most feared too much to show themselves. Mandalore was once divided amongst itself, with many factions and many conflicts. That is the past; now there is only Mandalore and there is only the Way.” 

Luke wonders about that, accepting his heaping plate with a thoughtful frown. “Aren’t you going to eat something?” he asks her, unable to help the concern edging into his voice.

“No, but you should,” she advises, making it sound like a well-intentioned warning. “Your training starts tomorrow and I doubt that any of it will be done by as a half measure.”

Luke hums thoughtfully in agreement. Quite the opposite, Luke figures they’ll be extra rough on him for good measure. Taking her advice, he picks up his fork, and the first bite barely hits his tongue before the kick of it shoots to the back of his throat. It’s _hot_ , undeniably the spiciest thing he’s ever tasted, and Luke coughs, eyes watering as he forces himself to swallow.

The display gets an uproarious reaction from the kids at the table, and Luke’s embarrassment is actually lessened rather than increased. 

“Well, Master Jedi,” the Armorer observes coolly. “How are you to handle our fighting if you can’t handle our food?” 

The kids laugh, and Luke has to wonder if she’s only teasing him for their amusement. Collecting his glass, he gulps down his water in one go. “Took me off guard,” he admits sheepishly, just a little breathless. “Is that why you’re not eating? You haven’t taken your helmet off.”

“Nor will I,” the Armorer states firmly, and Luke pauses in realization, guilt rising up in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, and uncertainty sneaks up on him before he confirms with a glance around the room. Sure enough, there’s Mandalorians exposed without worry: their helmets laid on the table as they converse among themselves. “I thought…” 

“There’s no need,” she says, before Luke can continue his apology. “Some of us choose to upload the Creed in the old ways, and others do not; it is no longer a point of contention. In the wake of the Purge, my tribe held even tighter to our origins, finding strength in it. Others cannot say the same, but that does not make them any less of a Mandalorian. Our strength is in our survival, and survival has many faces.” 

Luke considers that, his brow furrowing, and he speaks cautiously. “So, does that mean, the Mand’alor…?” he starts, but he’s interrupted before he can continue his thought. 

“He never takes it off,” one child declares happily, fearlessly devouring more of the casserole which still idly burns on the roof of Luke’s mouth. “Because he’s the greatest warrior alive! When I swear the Creed, I won’t take mine off either.”

“Don’t be stupid; he has to take it off _sometimes_ ,” another kid chides. “Or else he wouldn’t eat. Are you gonna starve?”

“I _know_ that.”

That starts the two of them bickering, bringing a faint grin to Luke’s lips. He supposes that answers that question. Tentatively, he prods his food with his fork, debating risking another molten mouthful. 

“They seem fond of him,” Luke observes, nodding at the now vocal and enthusiastic children, and the Armorer folds her hands together on the table.

“Yes, as is all of Mandalore,” she says, and her tone is hard to gauge. It almost sounds like she’s leading him on, coaxing into towards something, and Luke takes the unspoken invitation.

“I was hoping I could speak to him again,” he tells the Armorer cautiously. “Do you think I could arrange that?” 

The Armorer leans back, gazing somewhere past Luke rather than at him, and her tone is dry when she replies. “You could speak to him now.”

Even without the Armorer’s prompting, the arrival of the Mand’alor ripples through the entire hall like a wave. Luke follows her gaze, but several of his people rise to their feet to meet him, obscuring him from Luke’s line of sight. It takes a moment, several greetings and gestures needing to be made before the crowd around him clears, and when Luke sees him…

Thankfully, with all the noise in the hall, the clatter of Luke’s fork dropping against his plate gets swallowed up in the crowd. Colour drains from his face, and Luke freezes, too shocked to do anything else but gawk. 

The child in the Mand’alor’s arms is barely more than a handful. He doesn’t look old enough to even speak, but the _feeling_ that radiates out from him hits Luke like a punch to the back of his skull. Tucked against the polished gleam of the Mand’alor’s Beskar, the Child gazes up at his father with obvious adoration, tiny hands reaching as if he can’t get close enough. Almost thoughtlessly, mid-conversation with another Mandalorian, his father obliges: boosting him up enough that his little hands can grope playfully at the cloak bundled around his shoulders.

Luke covers his mouth with his gloved hand, smother the shocked laugh that bubbles up in his throat. He can’t believe it. 

There’s a significance to it that Luke can’t put to words. Master Yoda tasked him with carrying on the Jedi path and teaching others the way of the Force… and after he’s passed, the first individual he’s found is his splitting image.

Well, minus a few hundred years. 

“You recognize it.” The Armorer’s voice snaps Luke back to reality. It isn’t a question, but a statement, and Luke can’t rein himself in to answer her properly. 

“You would be the first,” she continues, without needing his reply, craning her head to watch the pair herself. “Before he became Mand’alor, I tasked him with finding the Child’s kind, but no dismal corner of the galaxy that he threw himself towards had ever seen anything like it before. If you have information, I imagine your next audience with the Mand’alor will go much more smoothly than the last.” 

Except. Luke’s stomach drops, and his posture visibly slumps. He watches the Mand’alor from across the room: he’s settled himself at a table, carrying out a conversation with two other masked Mandalorians, pausing every so often to guide more food to the Child’s lips. 

As if sensing Luke’s stare, his head turns towards him. Though the visor makes it impossible to say for certain, Luke gets the sense that their eyes meet. He almost _feels_ it, as ridiculous as it may be to think.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to tell him,” Luke admits honestly, his gaze lingering as if caught, and the disappointment hits harder than he anticipates. The Mand’alor’s attention is pulled back to the Child in his arms, and Luke’s uncertainty twists in his chest. “I only knew one other… and he passed away.”

“How unfortunate,” the Armorer says, and something in her tone gives Luke pause. She watches him again, and Luke sighs as he gathers her implication.

Unfortunate not just for her leader or his son, but for Luke, because that small gesture could’ve so easily swayed the Mand’alor to not see him as a threat. 

\--

It’s late by the time Luke returns to the house -- _his_ house, he supposes he should say. Artoo greets him with an excited whirl, and Luke reacts with a genuine, albeit tired, smile. 

“Hi, all settled in?” he asks, and Artoo whistles merrily. “Good. That makes one of us.” 

Sighing, he drags his gloved hand back through his hair. He really needs to send a message to Leia… though he supposes now isn’t the time. Luke feels exhausted abruptly, the weight of his circumstances hitting him all at once. If he’s to be put through the wringer tomorrow, the first thing he should do is get some sleep -- if he can muster it. His mind is racing: full of concerns, lingering on the Child, and on the Mand’alor himself. 

Luke frowns to himself. He’s not sure what it is about the man that gives him pause. There’s a feeling that he can’t quite put his finger on, and the more he tries to define it, the more elusive it becomes.

As if summoned up by his own musing, there’s a knock on his door. Artoo beeps warily, and the Armorer’s words linger on Luke’s mind: there’s probably plenty of Mandalorians who absolutely do not want him here.

With that in mind, when he opens the door, it’s with deliberate caution. The sight that greets him, however, is the last thing he expects. 

Framed in the dim moonlight, the Mand’alor stands in Luke’s doorway. His posture is still visibly tense, but he’s lacking the venomous, spiteful aura that surrounded him before. Not to say anything truly welcoming has replaced it, but the absence seems significant.

“Mand’alor,” Luke greets, not without obvious surprise, and he bends his head -- only belatedly realizing that he’s not sure if bowing to the Mand’alor is common practice. “Would you like to come inside?” 

“Not really,” he answers flatly, idly adjusting the satchel strapped to his shoulder, and Luke’s face falls.

At least he’s honest. 

Even so, the Mand’alor lingers. Without seeing his expressions, Luke can’t quite decipher his motivation. The Beskar catches the light from the house inside, mixing warm gold against cool grey, and Luke catches his gaze wandering. 

“You start training tomorrow,” he says abruptly, “you’ll be learning to fight.”

“I’ve been warned,” Luke explains, trying to smile, but he’s not sure if the Mand’alor appreciates the effort. 

“I don’t think you realize what you’ve agreed to,” he replies, and it doesn’t actually sound accusatory, but rather matter-of-fact instead. He isn’t speaking with a temper this time, though distrust still surrounds him like a veil. 

The statement isn’t at all misplaced. Luke did agree quite hastily, and didn’t even bother to ask a single question. Really, though, it wouldn’t have mattered; Luke would have followed whatever conditions offered to him in order to see this through. 

“I might surprise you,” Luke ventures boldly, and the Mand’alor’s reply is immediate. 

“No, you won’t.”

Luke blinks, barely having time to acknowledge the sting of the insult as the Mand’alor continues. 

“If you train under Vizsla with an empty stomach, you’ll faint,” the Mand’alor tells him flatly. Shrugging the satchel off his shoulder, he offers it out to Luke. “That’s enough for at least a week.” Inclining his head ever so slightly, his tone is dryly mocking. “Since you didn’t have any dinner.” 

Heat rises up the back of Luke’s neck, and he gratefully accepts the bag and glances inside. There’s ration bars, bread and fruits that he doesn’t recognize -- all simple, bland and very explicitly not-spicy things. 

Embarrassment burns at the back of his throat even worse than the food did.

Without waiting for Luke to reply, the Mand’alor already turns from him. Flustering, Luke’s fumbles somewhat, and quickly he plucks the phrase from his mind. “ _Vor entye_ ,” he manages quickly, and it actually stops him mid-step.

Glancing over his shoulder, the Mand’alor’s tone stays flat as ever. “Your Mando’a is awful,” he says bluntly.

Unable to help it, a grin pulls in the corner of Luke’s mouth. 

“Good thing I’ll be getting lessons then.”

It must be exasperation that turns the Mand’alor’s face upwards towards the stars, but it’s better than no reaction at all, and Luke finds himself smiling when he steps back inside and closes the door.

It’s only later that he realizes he heard no landspeeder; the Mand’alor made the walk to see him.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is that what you’re thinking of doing here?” he asks lowly, and while the question is accusatory, his temper doesn’t burn as hotly now. It’s a quieter, simmering distrust instead. “Repaying a debt to your old master?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very relieved and grateful that people are enjoying this so far. I really didn't expect it, given that this is a niche pairing, and it means a lot to me! 
> 
> Again: thanks to Parker for editing for me and encouraging me.

On his second day in Mandalore, Luke meets Paz Vizsla.

There’s plenty to be said about him. For one, he’s the first Mandalorian who Luke knows by name -- and two, he makes the fact that he absolutely despises Luke as plain as day from the second he lays eyes on him.

The diversity in the line-up of men and women lined up to learn can’t be overstated, but the only person Vizsla speaks to directly is Luke. Stepping close until mere inches separate them, the Mandalorian looms over him, and says with firm finality:

“You don’t deserve to be here.” 

The sincerity is almost refreshing. 

Luke isn’t unskilled, by any means, but training with the Rebellion is nowhere near the intensity of training with Mandalorians -- especially when the man in charge seems keen to drive Luke to the point of breaking. Hand-to-hand isn’t Luke’s strong suit, and Vizsla doesn’t give him one inch of mercy. Luke is shoved, pinned, thrown and openly scoffed at in equal measure. 

To his credit, though, Luke always stands up -- a fact which only seems to infuriate Vizsla more, rather than garner him any endearment. 

Once they’re dismissed, Luke is left to spend the rest of the day nursing his very sore and bruised body back at the house. The food that the Mand’alor left him feels like a blessing at this point, and Luke wonders if it was less a gesture of goodwill and more an act of responsible leadership. His conscience likely got the better of him, since he was very right -- if Luke hadn’t eaten the night before, he would have surely passed out the first time Vizsla trapped him on the floor.

He would have never lived that down, and he probably would have been sent packing immediately. 

He washes up, changing from his sweat-soaked fatigues and back into the familiar comfort of his robes. Artoo whistles contently as he follows Luke outside, where he finds a comfortable spot to sit on the ground with his legs neatly crossed.

Ideally, he would find somewhere more secluded to meditate, but Luke is hesitant to wander too far in unknown territory. He could unwittingly step on some toes by treading somewhere he shouldn’t. So, he stays close. Besides, his house is far enough away from the community that nothing should really bother him, and he should get some peace to move through his exercises. 

In theory. 

Luke barely spends any time clearing his mind before he hears them. Artoo whistles, but Luke doesn’t need the warning to know they’re here: the children talk in excited, hushed tones that aren’t nearly as quiet as they imagine themselves to be. A lot of it is in Mando’a, and therefore lost on him, but one word is obvious and repeated with nervous excitement:

_Jedi, Jedi, Jedi_ \-- 

Little by little, they inch their way closer to him -- clearly emboldened by the fact that Luke’s eyes are firmly shut. Luke breaks the illusion by cracking one eye open, and it earns him several gasps and and scattered, startled laughter. 

“ _Su'cuy_ ,” Luke greets coyly, smiling at the crowd. They’re all a mixture of ages and faces, even different species -- including the Mand’alor’s son, who is clutched snugly in the arms of an older girl. 

“Hi!” a boy replies happily, a shy sort of curiosity in his dark features. “Were you sleeping?” 

“Meditating,” Luke corrects, his posture relaxing significantly. “Do your families know you’re here?”

He can’t help looking at the Child, whose ears droop a little under scrutiny -- his father obviously wasn’t consulted.

“No,” the girl who holds him admits reluctantly, glancing at her friends for support, “But we wanted to see you.” 

There’s murmurs between them, obviously uncertain on whether to proceed or not, and endearment swells in Luke’s chest. He tilts his head, waiting, then one bold voice calls out: “Can you do a trick?” 

Blinking, Luke takes a moment, then he can’t help grinning. “A trick?” he repeats with amusement, and the crowd of them stammers with sudden excitement, little feet shuffling in the sand. Even the Child perks back up, his ears lifting, his shining eyes wide. 

“Please!” 

“Just one!” 

Well. Luke frowns thoughtfully. Given the overall displeasure that Mandalorians seem to have with him, the idea of showing off to their children is probably ill-advised. Still… with that many hopeful faces staring at him, and asking for so little… 

Eyes fluttering shut, Luke concentrates. At his elbow, Artoo lifts into the air, beeping excitedly as he ascends.

The reaction is immediate: the children explode in giddy excitement, laughing and cheering, and Luke opens his eyes to see the smiles on their faces. Their enthusiasm is contagious, and Luke can’t help beaming as they eagerly huddle closer to him.

He opens his mouth to speak again, but another voice beats him to it, ringing out over the hubbub:

“ _Hey_!” 

Oh, no.

Artoo squawks as he abruptly drops back down. Not violently, since Luke is aware enough to catch himself, but his shame makes him rough on the descent, eager to get Artoo back on solid ground as quickly as possible -- as if that will spare him the Mand’alor’s displeasure.

Cloak billowing behind him, he stalks forward, and he’s certainly an image in the bright morning light. The sun catches the Beskar with a warm gleam, the contrast stark and striking against the dark shade of his cloak, and Luke notices a detail he hadn’t before: an emblem cast into the plating of his shoulder. It isn’t the skull that’s so often associated with Mandalorians, nor is it any other symbol that Luke recognizes outright. He doesn’t get time to muse on it as the Mand’alor looms over him, and the delighted expressions of the children fade into guilt. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” He demands sharply, and Luke doesn’t actually get the chance to defend himself -- the children beat him to it. 

“We _asked_ him to,” a boy insists, turning his frown up to where the Mand’alor looks down at them. 

“He can do the same tricks as the little one,” the girl holding the Mand’alor’s child adds. In her arms, the baby coos, ears low and eyes wide in the face of his father’s anger. Still, Luke doesn’t pick up a lick of fear amongst them; just childlike embarrassment, and a little defiance, exemplified by the tight way the girl clutches the baby close and keeps her pleading eyes on his father. “We wanted to see!”

While Luke is sufficiently distracted by the task at hand, that throwaway detail persists: the Child can already use the Force?

Hands tightly clenched, the Mand’alor stays silent for a long moment, gazing down at the children who all admire him with mixed expressions of hope and admiration. Relenting with a tight, long suffering sigh, he jerks his head to the city behind them. 

“Go back home,” he orders, the command softened by how one hand reaches out to trace the shell of the Child’s ear. 

They hurry away, a few of them brave enough to wave or say farewell, and Luke waves weakly back before he glances up at the Mand’alor. 

“They’re just kids,” he entreats gently. “Don’t be angry with them.”

“I’m not angry with _them_ ,” he clarifies, his voice as hard as the steel of his armour. 

Right. Of course. Luke’s shoulders slump and he sighs as he rises to his feet. On the way up, his body protests much louder than he expects: an ache flaring up along his side. Unable to help a wince, Luke exerts a deliberate amount of effort to straighten himself upright. 

“Sore?” The Mand’alor asks, though he surely knows the answer to that already. 

“Vizsla doesn’t like me very much,” Luke explains, grinning self-deprecatingly, and he can’t tell if that gets him very far. 

The Mand’alor doesn’t seem at all surprised. “He’s a traditionalist,” he replies. “He doesn’t like the idea of an ancient enemy learning our ways.”

Cocking his head to one side, Luke looks at him curiously. “Is that what you see me as?” he asks outright. Frustration edges in, and Luke speaks entreatingly. “I’m not your enemy,” he reiterates. “I’m--”

“A Jedi; I know,” the Mand’alor answers impatiently. “I doubt you’d consider yourself enemy to anybody. You all think very highly of yourselves. Incapable of doing wrong. Beacons of light in the galaxy --” 

Embarrassment cuts through Luke uncharacteristically. Really, does the Mand’alor not have a point? Luke is one person trying to uphold an order that he still doesn’t quite understand. Still, the insult stings, and he narrows his eyes. 

“That’s not true,” he insists, on principal. 

“Yeah?” the Mand’alor asks, clearly disbelieving. “Tell me something, Jedi: with all your kinds’ talk about goodness and light, why do you wear black? Hardly seems to fit the bill.” 

The question catches Luke off guard. Maybe it shouldn’t, after the greeting he received when he first arrived. Though the Empire did its best to censor and purge evidence of the old ways, there was still enough material to indicate this old feud: and Mandalore was done wrong by both Jedi and Sith alike. 

Luke wonders if the distinction really means anything to the man standing in front of him.

“To honour my father,” Luke answers instead of arguing, honestly and immediately. “He always wore black -- or so I’ve been told.” The smile on his lips feels tighter than he’d like it to, and self conciousness has him duck his head. 

“I didn’t have the chance to know him for very long, so I try to carry him with me.”

The Mand’alor doesn’t answer. Luke can’t tell if he’s projecting the uncertainty in his posture, but he seems to waver, and the temper that Luke had felt coming off of him in waves ebbs a little. Very sharply and with a powerful twist in his gut, Luke wishes he could see his face. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” comes the reply, stiff and belated enough that it actually catches Luke offguard. For a second he thinks the Mand’alor might turn and leave again, letting Luke stare after him the way he had the night before, but instead he lingers, and Luke speaks up:

“Can I ask you for something?” he says, and maybe it’s taking advantage to sneak the request in when he’s feeling guilty, but Luke figures it’s his best shot. “I’d like to send a message, but my ship doesn’t have a strong enough signal to reach that far out.” 

“A message where?” the Mand’alor asks suspiciously, his momentary loss of footing replaced with familiar tension, and Luke jumps to clarify.

“To my sister,” he says quickly. “I just want her to know I’m safe.” 

The Mand’alor looks at him for several seconds, head cocked as he sizes him up. Luke doesn’t need any further visual cue to tell he’s weighing the options of whether or not Luke’s lying to him, as if he’s trying to call some secret, mysterious legion of Jedi warriors here to Mandalore.

Luke shouldn’t tease; he has every right to be protective, but Luke wishes he could just be given a chance… 

“Come on then,” the Mand’alor says at last, turning to lead the way. “Leave your droid.”

Artoo makes a sour, disapproving sound, and Luke pats his side apologetically. “Stay home, Artoo,” he instructs, his body giving him an unpleasant reminder of its aches as he rushes to catch up with the Mand’alor. 

Once he makes up for the gap, walking in stride with him is fairly easy. When he’s next to him, he’s faced with the odd reality that the Mand’alor isn’t that much taller than him. Somehow, he certainly seemed to tower over him; a thought created entirely by the sheer presence of him.

None of that intimidation is present here, however. It takes a bit of walking to reach the populated parts of the city, but once they do, the citizens wave and address their ruler happily and with genuine respect. The gestures are returned in kind: with clasped hands, or quick reassurances in Mando’a. Some of the comments are about Luke (no one bothers to be subtle about it) but more often it’s just people wanting to wish their leader well. 

It’s different, seeing him here. Luke remembers how the children at dinner spoke of him with admiration; wanting to emulate him. He thinks about what kind of man he must be… to be capable of the violence it took to reclaim this place, and yet to treat his own people so gently. 

“Your sister,” the Mand’alor says abruptly, snapping Luke from his wondering. His speech is slow, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Is she like you?” 

It’s all too obvious what he must mean, and a smile lingers in the corner of Luke’s mouth. “No,” he answers sagely, biting back his grin. “She’s a brunette.” 

While he can’t see whatever unimpressed expression the comment earns him, the Mand’alor makes it clear enough with the dry silence he offers. Luke quickly clears his throat. “That was a joke,” he says mildly, and apparently not a very good one. He obviously isn’t very good at endearing himself to Mandalorians; he really needs a better tactic.

“She can feel the Force, if that’s what you’re asking,” Luke continues, “but she doesn’t want to train. That’s her choice and I have to respect it.”

Humming thoughtfully at that, the Mand’alor glances away from him again. “Must be difficult,” he muses in that soft metallic timbre, and it feels like he’s fishing for something, but Luke can’t put his finger on what. 

“Yes and no. We’re two different people, and she took a different path than me,” Luke replies with a shrug, frowning a little. “We actually haven’t known each other very long; we were separated when we were very young.” 

The Mand’alor scoffs behind his helmet, and his voice comes as a mutter. “Of course you were.” 

The immediacy of the answer gives Luke pause, and he glances at him, arching a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, though he doubts he’ll like the answer.

The Mand’alor turns towards him, not breaking his stride as they walk together. “That’s what your kind do, isn’t it?” he affirms flatly. “You’re taken away from your family to learn the Force.” 

In an undertone, he continues: “I’m surprised you’re even allowed to see your sister.” 

Luke tries to swallow down the tension that wells up in his throat. A part of him naively hoped that the Mand’alor didn’t know that particular piece of Jedi history, but of course he’ll have no such luck. “That isn’t what happened,” he explains, and the Mand’alor makes a thoughtful sound, but he doesn’t seem swayed.

“It happened to plenty of others,” he says firmly. “Children separated from their families, never seeing their parents again. I looked into it. When I was searching with the kid…” 

As if realizing he’s taking himself down a path he doesn’t actually want to pursue, the Mand’alor trails off. Luke supposes it makes sense; the ways of the Jedi were mostly lost, but if one digs deep enough… they could find similar things that Luke did, and Luke could be lying if he said some of the history did not weigh unpleasantly on his conscience.

At what point did the Mand’alor’s task change? Was the Darksaber the deciding factor that stopped his search for the Child’s kind, due to his responsibility to his people? Or, was it simpler than that: did his research upset him so deeply that he refused to hand the Child over to a Jedi?

“The one you knew,” he says abruptly, his voice tight and drawing Luke’s focus forward, “the one like the kid; where did he come from?” 

Ah. Luke’s shoulders slump, and regret twists unpleasantly in his chest. The Mand’alor looks uneasy again, his shoulders stiff, and Luke wishes he had a way to resolve the tension there.

“Dagobah, but that wasn’t his home,” Luke explains, and he regrets not having more to offer. Master Yoda barely had time to finish Luke’s training, much less tell Luke anything about his own personal history.

In retrospect, Luke feels foolish for never asking. 

“He was my teacher,” he adds, for lack of anything else to give him. “He completed my training as a Jedi Knight before he died.”

The Mand’alor’s head inclines ever so slightly, and Luke can tell he’s being scrutinized. At his sides, the Mand’alor’s hands clench and loosen. Luke doesn’t need to see his face to know that the reply hasn’t calmed him in any way. 

“Is that what you’re thinking of doing here?” he asks lowly, and while the question is accusatory, his temper doesn’t burn as hotly now. It’s a quieter, simmering distrust instead. “Repaying a debt to your old master?” 

“What do _you_ think I’m doing?” Luke counters levelly. “I’m not trying to steal your son from you.”

Too harsh, Luke realizes, once the words leave his mouth. He reacted on an instinct that he didn’t think well enough to smother, and it does nothing to smooth the tension that pulls the air between them so tight. Wincing, he tries again. 

“I’m not thinking of doing anything,” Luke insists civilly, deliberately minding his tone. “Without his father’s permission.”

For a moment, the Mand’alor merely looks at him. Luke searches for some clue that he’s made an impression, but the tension lingers in his posture, and displeasure ebbs off of him in waves. Luke should be more patient; he knows that things are different for the Mand’alor. Luke keeps musing on his own uncertainty here; lost in a new culture -- but he hasn’t thought about the fact that Luke is unintentionally putting that same treacherous new territory on his host. All that he knows about Jedi is surely whispers and legends, and that can’t be reassuring.

Especially if he was reading stories about Jedi stealing children from their families... like some cautionary parable told at bedtime to inspire obedience in unruly sons and daughters.

Their pace slows as they walk, and the Mand’alor gestures stiffly at the building before them. “You can send your message here,” the Mand’alor says, in lieu of continuing their debate. 

He leads Luke inside. It’s an industrial sort of space, maybe once a base of operations when conditions were more favourable. Inside, there’s many computers in various states of quality; some are shattered, some repaired, and some seem remarkably untouched. The Mand’alor leads him to one of the more intact stations, pulling the chair out for Luke as he does. The gesture startles Luke somewhat, taken off guard by the courtesy given the circumstances, and he adjusts his robes around himself as he sits.

As Luke gets settled, however, the Mand’alor lingers. Resting his elbow on top of the computer, he leans his weight into the side of the desk, extending his other hand and motioning forward with two fingers. The pose is so casual, so much looser than Luke has ever seen him before, that it almost makes him miss the order that follows. 

“Give me your code,” he commands casually. 

Really. Luke frowns, almost objecting, but he figures it isn’t worth it. Reaching into his cloak, he collects the drive with Leia’s information. “This really isn’t necessary,” he says hopefully, even as he offers it up. The Mand’alor inspects it all the same, head bowed as he moves the drive in his hands. 

Luke remembers when he first saw him -- holding his lightsaber in that same way, slow and scrutinizing. 

“This is a New Republic code,” the Mand’alor announces flatly. 

Blinking at him, Luke straightens up a little. “Well, yes,” he says, unable to help keep the taunt out of his voice. “Would you _prefer_ a secret Jedi channel?”

“Don’t be cute,” the Mand’alor chides shortly, and Luke--

Hm. 

Luke presses his lips together, curving them inward to stop a stupid, impulsive reaction that nearly overtakes him. The effort only covers up his smile halfway, but it does manage to stall his knee-jerk instinct, swallowing back on: _you think I’m cute?_ before it earns him a black eye.

The taunt lingers, licking oddly in his stomach, and Luke wonders--

“You think this is funny?”

“No,” Luke says quickly, heat rising to his face despite himself. 

Focus. 

“I promise you; it’s just my sister. All I want is to send her a message to let her know I’m okay.” Thinking for a moment, he offers: “You can listen, if you’d like.”

Huffing a little behind his helmet, the Mand’alor leans more weight into the desk. “I was going to do that anyway,” the Mand’alor states outright, and Luke supposes he shouldn’t be shocked. Still, he tosses the code back to Luke all the same. “Go ahead. No open channel; record your message and don’t send until I say so.”

Relief washes through him, and Luke punches in the code. Ideally, he would want to speak to Leia on a live channel, but he supposes the concession is easy enough to make; it’s an expected precaution to screen Luke’s message for anything compromising first.

The unfortunate thing is now that he’s finally ready to speak… he realizes he isn’t sure what he should say. Maybe the Mand’alor leaning over him makes it hard to think straight, but Luke also has to be careful. He doesn’t want any of this to be mistaken for suspicious behaviour, or for it to seem like he’s exposing any Mandalorian secrets. 

After a moment of thought, he hits record. “Hi, Leia,” he greets, and automatically, warmth fills his chest. Even if it’s just a message, knowing that she’ll be hearing this comes with an undeniable fondness. “I’m sorry I didn’t reach out sooner; I hope you weren’t worried. I’m safe and I’m being taken care of. The Mand’alor has been a very generous host.” Unable to help himself, Luke glances up at him as he speaks. “But between you and me, he’s stubborn too. I’m not sure that he likes me very much.” 

The taunt leaves Luke smiling, and as the Mand’alor gazes back at him, he wishes he could tell if the joke connects. Determined, he stretches it out for a little longer, not faltering in his gaze as he continues. 

“I think I’m wearing him down, though,” he says, a playful grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

From where he stands, looming over him, the Mand’alor idly taps one finger where it rests against the computer, but other than that, he gives Luke nothing.

“I’ll keep you posted,” Luke continues, focusing back on the screen again. “I hope you’re well; I love you.” 

That done, Luke ends the recording and looks up at the Mand’alor again. His posture doesn’t change, even with the obnoxious teasing, but Luke still clarifies. “Can I send it?” he asks, receiving a quick nod of his helmet in reply. That done, he tucks her code back into his robes, and rises to his feet; a gesture that’s significantly slowed by the lingering ache in his muscles. 

“You’ll tell me if she replies?” 

“Maybe,” the Mand’alor says dryly.

Luke stares at him for a moment, and by the time he realizes that he’s being teased in return, the Mand’alor is already speaking again.

“You seem close,” he says, his voice quiet as if considering, and Luke tilts his head curiously.

“Does that surprise you?” Luke asks, following obediently behind the Mand’alor as he’s led out the door again.

“Yeah, actually, it does,” he replies, somewhat gruffly, suspicion clouds him again: bringing tension back between his shoulders. “That’s forbidden, isn’t it?”

Oh. Luke winces a little. Considering his phrasing, he takes a moment, threading his fingers together in front of his chest as they walk together. 

“I was older when I started my training,” he explains. “My teachers barely had time to show me how to use the Force -- never mind explain all the history. I’ve tried to research it myself, and there’s very little left after the Empire purged any evidence of the Jedi even existing. Then, what I could find -- what _you_ found…” Luke trails off somewhat. 

What remains isn’t really reassuring. The rules and creeds seem so harsh, unfeeling to the point of being cold, and these were supposed to be the methods of _good,_ of those in the light… but if Luke was to follow them, he could not see Leia, he would not tell her that he loved her, and he certainly would never have gone back to save his father.

Mandalore suffers a similar circumstance: so little of their history was available for Luke to study, and the Empire is to blame for that as well. From what Luke could read, however, he knows the Mandalorian emphasis on their families, their clans and their children… surely, by extension, the Jedi must have sounded like a horror story; a grim threat to what they held most dear. How could he blame the Mand’alor for his concerns? 

Luke glances at the streets around them. There’s an active bustle of activity: children playing, people speaking with one another with such kinship, others tending to damaged pieces of their city… it all feels so warm in Luke’s chest. After so much turmoil, of course their leader wants to keep this sanctuary safe. 

“I told you, I don’t want things to be like the old ways,” he reminds, daring to take a step closer to him. When he speaks, he isn’t confrontational: he’s earnest, and terribly transparent. “What will it take to convince you I’m not your enemy?” 

The Mand’alor watches him, his posture stiff and his body very still. Luke searches him, but the tangle of his emotions is difficult to parse. Suspicion. Anger. Curiosity. 

Maybe, just faintly, there’s a sensation that Luke wants to call hope.

“I’ve already told you what I expect,” the Mand’alor answers. “One day of training isn’t going to change my mind.”

Right. Luke frowns, heaving a heavy exhale that moves his whole chest. He supposes he shouldn’t be impatient; isn’t that one of the most important things Ben and Yoda tried to impress on him? Luke centres himself, tapping his thumbs together where his hands meet. 

“Thank you for letting me contact my sister,” he says sincerely, rather than press the matter, and the Mand’alor makes a thoughtful sound from behind his helmet. 

“Family’s important,” he says, his voice suddenly much quieter than before, and the softness implied within it gives Luke the courage to make a gamble. 

“Is it just the two of you?” Luke asks, keeping his tone gentle, curious rather than prying. “You and your son?” 

There’s a pause, clearly considering, before the Mand’alor nods his head. “That’s right,” he affirms, glancing out towards the streets -- and more specifically, the children playing there. “He was a job; they wanted me to turn him in.” His body shifts, as if to shirk a discomfort from his shoulders; the unpleasant memory lingering on him. “I took him with me instead.”

The thought churns unpleasantly in Luke’s stomach. He wants to ask more: who hired him for something like that, and if he knew what they wanted the Child for… but the obvious tension that hangs over him makes Luke think better of it. Craning his head a little, Luke follows the Mand’alor’s gaze. 

“How many of them are the same?” he asks, unable to help himself. “Taken in?”

“More than you’d think,” the Mand’alor answers simply. “It doesn’t make any difference to us.” Shrugging his shoulders, the Mand’alor turns towards him again. “ _Aliit ori'shya tal'din._ ”

That one doesn’t sound familiar even in the slightest. Wincing somewhat, Luke tries to offer a smile. “My Mando’a lessons don’t start until tomorrow,” he says sheepishly, and the Mand’alor bows his head. 

“It’s a saying,” he explains, his tone unreadable. “Family is more than blood.”

Luke pauses, the phrase stirring something in his chest for a reason he can’t place. It strikes a chord, tender and resonating… and he doesn’t notice it at first, but the feeling isn’t entirely his own -- it’s the Mand’alor’s own reaction, his own deep, heartfelt connection to the words he’s spoken, that cascade off him like a wave to infect Luke’s senses as well.

“I have to go,” the Mand’alor says, as another man appears and waves him over, almost chiding as if he’s late. Glancing at Luke, his voice is firm again, losing the soft, musing edge that it carried before. “Stay out of trouble.” 

“Trouble usually finds me,” Luke corrects coyly, and the Mand’alor merely scoffs again, leaving Luke behind as he joins his companions. 

Watching the Mand’alor leave, Luke frowns to himself. He supposes he should go back to the house, continue his meditation… maybe rest, before he gets himself tossed around again tomorrow. 

As he starts the long walk home, once there’s no one around to overhear him, he mutters the phrase the Mand’alor spoke to him. Fumbling somewhat, he rolls the words over tentatively in his mouth, trying his best to get the sound right. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stepping closer, Luke makes his way to the edge of their table, daring to press the matter a little further. “You’re a good storyteller,” he praises, and the Mand’alor huffs out a humorless laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really did not expect all the wonderful feedback I've received so, and it really means a lot to me. I hope this series continues to satisfy!

On his second day of training, Luke still has not garnered any sympathy from Vizsla. 

At more than one point, Luke debates remarking that his skills would be improving at a faster pace if Vizsla would actually let him train, rather than repeatedly knocking him on his back at any given opportunity… but he decides his smart mouth won’t actually do him any favours. Despite his discretion, the Mandalorian doesn’t even try to hide his grudge. He picks Luke out of the line-ups, chooses him for overly aggressive demonstrations, and kicks his feet out from under him while he’s running drills with the other students.

To Luke’s credit, he does fair a little better this round than the last, but it isn’t by much. He still hits the mats more often than anyone else training here, and the bruises he’s collected just keep getting darker. 

“No magic,” Vizsla warns, when Luke’s frustration becomes painfully obvious. He keeps Luke down with a firm hold on his arm, twisted tight behind his back. “If you cheat, I’ll know -- and you’ll regret it.”

“It’s not _magic_ ,” Luke can’t help but correct snidely, his voice tight with strain, and all it earns him is Vizsla pinning him harder to the floor. 

He isn’t even granted the opportunity to recuperate today. After combat training, he’s scheduled for lessons in Mandalorian language and culture -- which apparently he desperately needs. Luke has barely enough time to hastily down a ration bar and change his clothes before he’s expected at the next class. He was told to meet them at the entrance of the city, and while it strikes Luke as an odd location, he doesn’t question it. He’s just grateful that finding them is easy enough.

The instructor is a broad shouldered Mandalorian woman, one who shows her face openly with a welcoming smile as Luke approaches. The expression fills him with an unspeakable relief -- he isn’t sure he could handle another person treating him like Vizsla. There’s a cluster of children gathered around her, all of varying ages, but none of which look older than their teenage years.

The image gives Luke pause, and he clarifies as he approaches. “Hello,” he greets tentatively. “Um. Am I in the right place?” 

“Hello, Master Jedi,” she replies. “Yes, as a matter of fact, you are.” Her welcoming smile turns more into a smirk as she continues. “The Mand’alor said he assessed your level in Mando’a himself, and that this would be the ideal ranking for you.” 

Gathered around her feet, the children unsuccessfully try to smother their laughter, and Luke can’t even bring himself to feel properly embarrassed. Sighing, he bows his head, reluctant but resigned to his utter inexperience. 

“Don’t be so discouraged,” she says goodnaturedly. “Today is mostly a history lesson, so we can ease you into things. We’re just waiting for two more to arrive.” She takes a moment, glancing back over Luke’s shoulder and smiling. “Here they are.” 

Luke _feels_ them before he sees them. Even so, he turns around to confirm it for sure: it’s the Mand’alor who approaches, his son toddling happily behind him. The Child’s pace is slow, not only due to his stature, but how he’s clearly preoccupied with the necklace he’s holding up to his mouth. 

The sight sets the other children giddy with excitement, and Luke finds himself again touched by just how beloved their leader is. The teacher gives a series of soft hushes, trying to keep them contained, but a few already rush close to meet him. 

The Mand’alor clearly doesn’t mind at all. Reaching down with a gloved hand, he ruffles a young boy’s hair once he’s in reach. Several of the children happily say hello, both to him and the Child that he collects into his arms, though the use of Basic earns a gentle reprimand. 

“ _Su cuy'gar,_ ” the Mand’alor corrects them, though it’s a warm response, not a chiding one. “You’re in class.” 

In a practiced chorus, the children snap to attention and repeat the greeting in proper Mando’a. Luke is too distracted to join in immediately, and disappointment for the missed opportunity curls in his chest unexpectedly. 

“ _Su cuy'gar,_ ” he adds belatedly, speaking more directly to him as the Mand’alor approaches. 

Cautiously stepping through the sea of children at his feet, the Mand’alor gives Luke a look, then he focuses on the teacher instead. “Work on his enunciation,” he tells her, and a frown finds its way to Luke’s lips. 

“Thank you for having us,” he continues, still addressing the teacher as he tucks the Child closer to his chest. “I know he’s too young to understand it, but I thought he’d like it.” Nodding his helmet towards him, his free hand reaches out, plucking the pendant from his mouth. “Given his favourite toy.” 

Now that Luke is close enough, he can see it for what it is: the necklace bears a pendant of a mythosaur skull, carved in Beskar. The wear that it shows surely comes with years of generations, rather than any real damage done by tiny teeth. With a disappointed croon, the Child reaches his tiny hands out to recollect it again. His father obliges, letting him have it, and the skull quickly disappears back into his mouth. 

A strong, helpless swell of endearment fills up in Luke’s chest. He ducks his head to stop himself from staring, happy for the excuse of somewhere else to look when the teacher gathers her students back together. 

“I need everyone to pay attention,” she says firmly, which is evidently a difficult task when all the children are eagerly crowding around the Mand’alor. “We’re going out into the desert and I don’t want anyone to wander. It’s a bit of a walk, but I believe we can have our lesson on the way there.

“And I was wondering,” she continues, smiling at the Mand’alor openly. “If our guest would actually take over for me today.” 

The suggestion alone sets the children into a fit of excitement. Luke blinks, uncertain of the implication, and when he looks at the Mand’alor… it’s obvious how the man suddenly becomes uncharacteristically uncertain. His posture changes, his weight shifting from foot to foot, and he brings his son closer to his chest.

“I -- don’t know about that,” he answers cautiously, his voice almost lost under the enthusiastic cheers from the students. “I’m not a very good storyteller.” 

His protest cuts through the students’ enthusiasm like a knife, their glee lost to disappointed sighs and earnest pleas. 

“ _Please_ , Mand’alor!” 

“It’s the mythosaur, you _have_ to!” 

“The little one wants to hear it too! Like you said: it’s his favourite!” 

Luke can’t help the warmth curling in chest from the sight before him. For all his dark intimidation, here is the Mand’alor: surrounded by a group of relentless, demanding children, and helpless to do anything about it. His helmet turns uneasily between them all, focusing on each new voice that begs him to speak. 

“Mand’alor,” Luke calls over the clamour, and his helmet snaps up, fixing on him on reflex rather than conscious effort. “I’d like to hear it too.” Smiling at him, Luke adds. “ _Gedet'ye_.” 

_Please_.

For a moment, the Mand’alor simply stays where he is, looking at Luke without wavering. As if infected by the notion, the kids parrot Luke’s effort: pleading in Mando’a instead of Basic.

“Okay,” he announces, quietly to start, then a little louder when the kids roar with their hard-won victory. “ _Okay_. Okay. But you all have to be quiet and listen.” Tilting his helmet, he looks at Luke deliberately. “That includes you.”

Luke smirks, but he obliges and keeps his mouth shut, throwing his hood up before they walk too far into the unforgiving sun. The children also obey, but it’s obviously with a very considerable effort. The group practically vibrates with excitement, tucking as close as possible as the teacher guides their way through the dunes. 

The Mand’alor doesn’t start speaking right away. He takes his time as they walk together, likely considering his words. When he does speak, Luke finds himself hung up on his voice. He thought he might adjust to it by now, but it’s always so much softer than he expects, steady and smooth in a way that lingers on him. 

“Before anyone else ever walked on this planet, there were the mythosaurs,” the Mand’alor starts solemnly. He’s slow to begin, picking up his rhythm gradually as he continues speaking. “They were giant, towering beasts who ruled this world; covered in scales and wielding twin horns on either side of their mouths, framing a set of razor sharp teeth. No weapon could pierce their hides, and their footsteps could scatter stone. It was because of these great creatures that no one ever tried to lay claim to Mandalore before, until Mand’alor the First arrived.”

A nervous buzz goes through the kids, coupled with quiet awe, and Luke smiles to himself, awed by their restraint.

Despite himself, he finds he has a question of his own, but he keeps it tucked inside his mouth.

“Mand’lore the First led his people here, and they did what no one else could: his great warriors fought the mythosaur, and they won,” he continues, his voice taking on a specific fondness when he speaks -- whimsical if not a little forlorn. 

Luke finds his gaze drawn to the Child in his arms. Surely he can’t understand what’s being said; he’s too young for that, but he stares up at his father with wide eyes… like he’s clinging to every word. 

“The challenge was great, and many were lost, but what they gained was greater: a planet to call home, and a terrifying, monstrous steed like no one else had ever seen before.” 

“Mand’alor,” one of the youngest boys perks up to ask, his excitement overriding his obedience. His hand catches a grip on his cloak, tugging gently to get his attention. “Have you ridden one?” 

The response he gets is a quiet, low chuckle -- but it’s not at all unkind in nature; if anything, the noise seems more self-deprecating. “No,” the Mand’alor says. “I haven’t ridden anything bigger than a dewback. They went extinct a long time ago.” 

That sets a murmur of disappointment among them again, muttering and frowning. 

“I bet you _could_ ride one,” wagers another boy confidently, and his peers murmur in agreement, persistently awed by the strength of their ruler. 

His laughter deepening, the Mand’alor gives a little shake of his head, and Luke… Luke finds himself staring. The sound echoes with a metallic ring through his helmet, low and sincere, and something twists in the depths of Luke’s chest. In that instant, it’s so easy to imagine how he must have been when he was no older than the children at his feet: young and hopeful and dreaming of riding monsters.

Focusing back on his task, the Mand’alor continues. “The mythosaur became a symbol of the Mandalorians,” he explains. “Its skull adorns our armour, ships and flags… and from one of the very first fallen, the bones above its heart were taken and shaped into a mask. It was passed down through generations, worn by the chosen Mand’alor… before it was lost.”

With that thought, Luke tries to decipher his tone. Longing, perhaps. Not so selfishly that he’s lamenting a crown to wear on his head, clearly, but rather mourning a piece of history that’s been lost to time and violence. 

“I want to see one,” a girl laments, and the Mand’alor gently nudges her shoulder with one gloved hand, then points beyond the upcoming dune. 

“Go ahead, then,” he coaxes. 

It’s not just the girl who takes up the invitation, but the whole group of them. Sand skidding out from under their feet, the children run forward, and when they pass the dune, a series of passionate shouts spill out. 

It takes a considerable amount of will to keep his own even pace and not hurry to see what the fuss is about. Luke reaches the top of the dune, and he sees what causes so much excitement: below them, the bones of a great, giant beast lay embedded in the sand. It must be belly up, given the cage of its ribs that peek up over the ground, and the sheer mass of it triggers an instinctive fight-or-flight in the pit of Luke’s stomach. His own odd, generations-buried dread isn’t shared by any of the students, however, who eagerly climb and dart around the skeleton with unhindered enthusiasm. 

“It’s huge,” Luke utters, unable to help himself, and at his side, the Mand’alor hums.

“And that’s just what you can see,” he points out. “More than half of it’s buried.” 

One of the students rushes back up to where Luke and the Mand’alor stand, grinning and extending her arms. “Can I show the little one?” she asks eagerly. 

Without an inch of hesitation, the Mand’alor passes his son along, who giggles in delight and he’s carried down to join the others. The teacher follows after them, making sure none of the ones who attempt to climb the bones get too bold, leaving Luke and the Mand’alor standing quietly above them. 

Awe leaves Luke quiet for a moment, simply watching as the children play below, and it’s the Mand’alor who breaks the silence. 

“We hunted them to extinction,” he says, seemingly out of nowhere, his voice much more somber than before. He’s lost the soft, familiar edge to his voice, and replaced it with something grim. “This planet belonged to them, and we took it by force. We hunted them down; used them for war, and we didn’t know when to stop.”

Luke holds his tongue, watching the Mandalore in the bright, clear light that rains down on them. He doesn’t look at Luke as he speaks, watching the young ones playing down beneath them, their laughter and shouts carrying easily in the open plains. 

“I wonder if that’s our curse for what we did,” he muses darkly, “We hunted them, and our penance is to be hunted in return, always so close to the edge of dying out.” 

Sighing, the Mand’alor’s whole body seems to sink. Tilting his head, Luke watches him from behind the dark shade of his hood, trying to parse the whirling tide of his emotions. With the increasing amount of time that he spends with him, Luke should feel like he understands him more. Instead, Luke keeps finding new layers and details, all building into a strange, complex puzzle that he can’t quite put together.

“I used to love this story,” the Mand’alor admits. “It was _my_ favourite. Now I’m not so sure how it makes me feel.” 

“No one’s history is bloodless,” Luke says, his voice softer than he intends. As he says it, he has to mirror that thought inward: facing his own twisted history with the Jedi with a wary eye. “You can’t blame yourself for your ancestors’ sins. Look at what you’ve done for your people -- what you’re doing for them.”

The Mand’alor hums behind his helmet and Luke can’t tell if he’s said the right thing. Sighing, he straightens his shoulders, and he makes his way down the dune without giving Luke an answer. “We should finish up,” he calls as he walks, and the children groan their protest from around the playground they’ve made of the mythosaur’s remains. 

Following at his back, Luke smiles as the children linger and protest. A few gather around their teacher’s feet, begging for a little more time, and her assurances that they can return later does nothing to dissuade their sorrow.

Gazing around at the sight before him, Luke takes a minute to actually absorb what he’s seeing. The bones are stark, pearly white against the sand: long picked clean by some ancient scavengers. Cautiously, uncertain for a reason that he can’t name, he reaches out, placing his ungloved hand against the thick pillar of one massive rib. 

Closing his eyes, Luke lets his mind clear. It certainly feels like some unspeakably entity -- some ancient monster that seems more legend than reality. History seems to thrum under his palm, and he feels…

Huh.

He opens his eyes, glancing back around him. The teacher and Mand’alor alike are distracted by the pleading students, apparently not noticing the one missing from their ranks. 

His boots dusted with sand, Luke steps around to the head of the mythosaur would be. The skull is buried far out of sight, but sitting where it should be is the very small but very focused son of the Mand’alor.

The image gives Luke pause, and he stays where he is, not wanting to disturb the little one a few feet away from him. The Child has his eyes closed, tiny hands lifted so serenely… and he’s concentrating; Luke can feel it, like a vibration in the air around him. He’s trying to use for the Force… but for what? 

“Hey,” the Mand’alor says, his voice cutting through both Luke’s quiet awe and the Child’s focus. “There you are. Time to go.” 

His eyes huge and bright, the Child coos happily, moving his hands to lift towards his father instead of… whatever he was reaching for. With his son in hand, the Mand’alor steps away again, and he doesn’t wait for Luke to follow. Staring after them, Luke’s mind buzzes, and his heartbeat quickens under his chest.

Luke hesitates, moving a few steps back to fully take in the sight before him. The mythosaur lurks under the surface, ominous and colossal beneath the sand at his feet, a legend that’s connected to these people more deeply than Luke can even entirely grasp. He had seen in the eyes of the children, and their teacher, heard it in the Mand’alor’s voice -- telling a story that’s clearly been passed on for generations.

Even new to this, he can see so clearly what it means to them. What it means to the Mand’alor.

All at once, he realizes what the Child wanted to do; he simply couldn’t manage it yet.

Dropping his hood back down around his shoulders, Luke lets the bright, unforgiving sun cast down on him. He takes a moment, levelling out his breathing, and lets his gaze wander over the imposing structure in front of him. 

But the size of it doesn’t matter -- that’s always the lesson. It’s nothing but sand and bone. No different than anything else. No different than lifting Artoo or moving stones. The only thing weighing the beast down is the history of it, and the importance that it carries to all of Mandalore.

Luke’s eyes roll back, fluttering shut, and his gloved hand extends out in front of him.

It isn’t immediate. There’s no way it could be. Luke feels the ground shift under his feet, rumbling like an earthquake, and he ignores it. Sand cascades down like a waterfall, dusting his clothes and brushing against his cheeks. That doesn’t matter either. What matters is what he _feels_ and what he can do: he can lift the mythosaur. 

He _can_. His arm trembles, fingers twitching, but he keeps his reach firmly extended. There’s nothing between him and this task but his own mind. 

When it’s done, he feels it happen; it’s as if a knot of tension untwists in the pit of Luke’s stomach and sends serenity flowing through him in a wave. Opening his eyes, he confirms it, and the sight is something to behold: floating in front of him, possessed by his outstretched hand, the mythosaur’s skeleton floats in the air like some haunted, holy spectre. Luke holds it there just long enough to let out a laugh of pure, joyful relief, and his smile spreads hugely on his cheeks. 

With careful control, Luke sets the bones back down upon the sand. The impact still kicks up dust, spilling forward, and the resulting cloud hits Luke harder than he anticipates. Wincing, he stumbles a step back, coughing into his fist and squinting where it stings his eyes.

When the sand clears, Luke glances up at the dune… finding all eyes staring back at him in what may be awe or fear -- or maybe both. The kids look too amazed to be properly frightened, and the Mand’alor...

The Mand’alor is looking right at him, and Luke gazes back with his chest tightening. Given the inherent disrespect involved with even just considering it, he’s tried to reign in his impulsive thoughts-- but here, as they stand across from each other in silence, he can’t help the selfish desire that pushes to the forefront of his mind:

Despite the invasiveness implied, he very much wishes he could see the Mand’alor’s face.

\--

The walk back to the city is a much tenser journey than the venture out had been. To Luke’s relief, however, none of the children feel like they’re afraid of him. Nervous, is the proper word -- abruptly shy when faced with something they didn’t expect and don’t understand.

Walking deliberately ahead of him, the Mand’alor has not spoken a single word to him. Unlike the students, his reaction is not so easily parsed, and Luke wonders if he’s just spoiled all of the ground he’s gained between them. He feels foolish.

He _looks_ foolish, to say the least: no matter how determinedly he dusts himself off, the black of his robes is now a stubborn, sandy white instead. 

When they reach the city, the students are dismissed. They hurry on, not without casting curious looks at Luke, and Luke dares a shy wave in their direction that only one or two return. Luke himself stays where he is, watching as the Mand’alor passes his son to the teacher before she leaves as well. Naively, Luke hopes this means he’ll finally speak to him, but the Mand’alor turns to the gatekeepers instead.

“I need a recovery team and a ship,” he says, his tone strangely flat. “Biggest we’ve got, if you can.” 

The gatekeeper nods his helmet, sent off with his task, and Luke takes a step forward. 

“If you’re going back for it, I could come,” Luke offers helpfully, maybe a little too eagerly. “I could help--”

“You’ve done enough,” the Mand’alor says, and it doesn’t necessarily sound like a reprimand. More like a matter of fact. Luke almost protests, daring to come nearer, but the Mand’alor follows after the gatekeeper without even sparing him a glance. 

“Clean yourself up,” is the only thing he offers, and the command makes Luke’s cheeks burn under the layers of grit. 

\--

Reluctant as he is, Luke follows the suggestion and returns to his house. Artoo squawks in shock at the sight of him, and Luke scoffs, every step he takes leaving sand in his wake.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Luke agrees dryly. He scratches at his scalp, trying to shake the sand out of his hair, and it doesn’t get him very far. He sighs, failing to see an end to the constant stream that now dirties his floor. “Just like home, huh, Artoo?” 

It feels like he has to wash half of Mandalore off of himself before he’s finally clean. Artoo is kind enough to get the mess off the floor, though he beeps in protest when Luke dresses again. 

“I’m just going back out for a little while,” he insists. Artoo gives a wary, drawn out whirl, and Luke shakes his head. “Just for a bit. If I do some more research, maybe I won’t keep embarrassing myself here.”

Artoo whistles and Luke nods his assent. “Yeah, I _do_ wish we brought Threepio,” he admits. “But Leia needs him more. Besides, I have to learn the language myself.” Giving him a pat with his good hand, Luke grins at him. “Be back soon.” 

The city has quieted down for the early evening when he makes his way back. As goes, he keeps his head raised, trying to remember the buildings and landmarks that the Armorer had pointed out to him when she first led him through the streets. She had pointed out the Archives, and luckily it’s one of the most distinct and largest buildings along the path. It’s relatively dark when Luke steps inside, the lights weakly flickering on as he ventures in -- but at the end of the hall, there’s already a room illuminated. 

Someone’s here, and the feeling on the back of his neck leaves him no doubt. 

The lights announce his presence ahead of time, but the Mand’alor still seems surprised when Luke approaches. He’s seated at a round table, several books and datapads scattered out in front of him, and the Child sits among them, gnawing on the edge of one the moment his father’s distracted. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his tone sharp with accusation, and it catches Luke off guard. Maybe his scene with the mythosaur has made the Mand’alor sour with him, or maybe it’s simpler than that, and the Archive makes him inherently protective. 

The Armorer had explained it on their long walk: when the Imperials sieged Mandalore, practically nothing was spared -- and their history was targeted with specific malice. The fact that this building still stands is a feat, considering precious little would’ve been left on its shelves. All that remains is what the tribes managed to salvage between one another: pooling together what broken scraps of their libraries and lore they managed to keep with them, driven by stubborn, determined will to survive. 

Raising his hands disarmingly, Luke stalls in his approach. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” he says sincerely. “I… came here hoping to study.” 

Without even looking at the Child, the Mand’alor reaches out and gently pulls the datapad from his teething mouth. “Study what?” he prompts expectantly. 

“History,” Luke admits honestly, embarrassment swelling up in his throat as he continues. “And Mando’a… since you keep telling me how bad I am at it.” 

Scoffing, the Mand’alor shakes his head, though his defensiveness fades somewhat. “That won’t get you very far.”

Bristling despite himself, Luke heaves a breath. “Well, that’s very kind of you,” he replies dully, arching one brow at him. “Between you and Vizsla, the faith in my abilities is overwhelming. Even without your vote of confidence, I’d like to give it a try.” 

“That isn’t what I meant,” the Mand’alor clarifies, starting the steady task of marking and closing the books in front of him. “You won’t find many texts on Mando’a or about our history -- and it’s not because of the purge.” 

Sighing, the Mand’alor slump back in his chair, and he suddenly seems very, very tired. If he were able, Luke could imagine him trying to rub the exhaustion from his eyes -- but maybe that’s just projection. 

“Our history is oral, for the most part,” he explains patiently. “You won’t find it written down; it’s mostly passed along in stories or songs.” 

Once he says it, Luke wonders if he shouldn’t be surprised. The Mandalorians put so much importance on the closeness of their culture, their tight knit clans, and it makes sense that their history would be passed down with such purposeful intimacy. 

“Like you did today,” Luke observes, reluctant to dredge up the subject but unable to let it sit, “with the mythosaur.”

“That’s right,” he affirms, and his tone isn’t sharp enough for Luke to take it as a reprimand. 

Stepping closer, Luke makes his way to the edge of their table, daring to press the matter a little further. “You’re a good storyteller,” he praises, and the Mand’alor huffs out a humorless laugh.

“I doubt it,” he replies dryly. “You don’t need to flatter me.”

Shaking his head, Luke presses even nearer. “I mean it,” he insists. “I enjoyed hearing it.” 

Humming thoughtfully, the Mand’alor looks unconvinced, and Luke waits a moment, lingering, and he continues speaking before he can think better of it:

“Maybe you could sing to me sometime.”

Once Luke says it, he regrets it. Heat rises up the back of his neck, his stomach twisting, and the Mand’alor merely gazes up at him, unreadable behind the shield of his helmet. 

After too long, what feels like an eternity, he speaks. “You’re worse than the Foundlings,” he accuses, but his voice is quieter than before, and utterly lacking any spite.

Emboldened, Luke makes his gamble: pulling out the chair from the table and sitting down beside him. “They all seem to adore you,” Luke notes kindly. 

Humming, the Mand’alor thoughtfully drags his thumb along the spine of a worn book. “I was like them once,” he says, and Luke can’t help a small grin in the corner of his mouth.

“You were a kid once?” Luke teases, hoping to ease some of the tension from his shoulders. “I should hope so.”

Scoffing, the Mand’alor tilts his head on a sharp angle. “Very funny,” the Mand’alor replies, his tone dry to start, then softening to something gentler. “I was a Foundling; that’s what I meant.” Glancing away again, he drums his fingers along the table. “The Mandalorians took me in when I was very young, after my home was attacked.”

Luke stills, his eyes widening as he gazes at the man across from him. Really, he shouldn’t be surprised, should he? That’s the case for so many Mandalorians; they’d even discussed it before. Yet, hearing it from the Mand’alor himself is something else entirely. For a moment, Luke says nothing: too caught up on the fact that this is probably the most personal thing that the Mand’alor has ever said to him. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t know.” 

“Wouldn’t expect you to,” the Mand’alor reasons simply, shrugging one shoulder with a nonchalance that only seems half sincere. “That’s why I try to spend time with them.” 

Nodding his head, Luke doesn’t need any further elaboration. The Mand’alor wants to be there for the next generation, the way the Mandalorians were there for him. It’s such a simple thing, but it aches in the depths of Luke’s chest. He lets his gaze wander to the Child, whose mouth proves to be unexpectedly enormous as he yawns, and he thinks.

“You’re a good father,” Luke tells him. He looks at the Mand’alor when he says it, and he smiles sincerely. “I’m glad you were the one who found him.” 

Luke means it, every word, and if that matters much to the Mand’alor… nothing in his posture betrays it. With a soft whimper, the Child toddles across the table, stepping gracelessly around the piles of books to tumble helplessly against his father’s chest. The Mand’alor catches him, tucking him close, and the Child croons, nuzzling his cheek into the soft fabric of his cloak. 

Apparently, that’s as much of a pillow as he needs, since his eyes close and he immediately succumbs to sleep.

They stay like that for a moment, the Mand’alor idly rubbing his hand down the Child’s back, before he speaks again. 

“The things that you can do,” he starts quietly. “That both of you can do. I don’t understand it.” With his free hand, he gestures at the mess of information in front of him, revealing his research for what it is: surely spurred on by Luke’s display in the desert, he’s dug up every scrap of information on Jedi that the Mandalorians have in their possession. “I _can’t_ understand it.” 

Frustration bleeds off of him, abrupt and hot, and the Mand’alor heaves an exhale. “The Empire hunted him because of this. Because of your magic. He used it to save my life but that doesn’t count for anything if I can’t keep him safe,” he admits, and every word is tightly spoken; like he forces them out from behind his grinding teeth. The confession cuts the roof of his mouth and it makes Luke’s chest twist. “I can’t – take care of him properly, if I don’t know what I’m doing. What kind of father am I then?” 

Luke’s pulse skips, and he stays very still. Fear and anger swirl around the Mand’alor like a tide, and Luke waits for the worst of it to calm before he risks speaking. He knows he’s pushing his boundaries. He knows the Mand’alor has made his wishes explicitly clear, but Luke can’t just sit quietly by while this agony eats away at him. 

“I can help,” he offers, achingly, desperately earnest. “Mand’alor, please.” 

Before he can think better of it, Luke reaches out and he almost touches him -- but he quickly catches himself, and retracts his hand instead. 

“ _Gedet'ye_ ,” Luke corrects, quieter now, embarrassed by his own boldness. 

The Mand’alor watches him, his turmoil still clouding him like a fog, and he doesn’t speak. Luke waits, his heart thudding in his chest, and his body tenses as the Mand’alor abruptly rises from his seat. 

“After your lessons tomorrow, come and talk to me,” he says, his voice stiff, “and you’re just _talking_ to _me_.” He emphasizes each word very firmly, and Luke tries to keep a foolish, beaming grin from taking over his face. 

“ _Vor entye_ ,” Luke replies happily, and even through the armour, he can practically see the Mand’alor cringe at his enunciation. 

“ _Vor entye_ ,” he corrects firmly, and Luke honestly cannot hear the difference.

“That’s what I said,” Luke objects. 

“It absolutely was not.” 

Despite himself, Luke laughs, and he doesn’t hide it; he’s too delighted to care. His chest flutters as the Mand’alor’s permission floods through him, lingering with an overwhelming combination of relief and excitement all at once. Shaking his head, the Mand’alor steps away from the table, and Luke turns in his seat to follow him. 

“Before you go,” Luke says quickly, “I have a question.”

Slumping significantly, the Mand’alor looks as tired as the Child in his arms -- which is quite a feat, given how his face his utterly concealed. Luke almost feels guilty for how much he’s surely been taxing him all day. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t leave either, so Luke continues. 

“Before I came here, when I was trying to research… I read that the Mand’alor usually has a title,” he explains. “You mentioned Mand’alor the First today, and it made me realize… I’ve never heard yours.” 

The Mand’alor lingers for a moment, idly adjusting his son against his chest, and when he speaks, his voice is a quiet rumble. 

“Righteous,” he answers quietly. “Mand’alor the Righteous.” 

Luke’s expression softens. He remembers the stories: Moff Gideon, who raided and purged Mandalore in the Empire’s name, who scattered their people in a storm of destruction and then wielded the blade like a false king… only for the Mand’alor to find him, fight him, pulling the Darksaber from his hands and--

He was retaking what was theirs -- what belonged to Mandalore; what was rightfully theirs. Luke tries to imagine it: the Mand’alor tangled up in battle, ripping the sword from the Imperial’s grip and turning it back on him. 

Righteous. Vindicated. Triumphant. 

“It suits you,” Luke tells him.

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re a disappointment,” Vizsla tells him bitterly, “Mandalorians once craved the opportunity to fight a Jedi. You were supposed to be formidable opponents -- and look at you: you can barely stay on your feet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a lengthy chapter. You may notice my chapter numbers fluctuating a little, mostly because my outline seems very reasonable, but then I'm slicing chapters in half so they're not so terribly long.
> 
> Again, I truly appreciate all the feedback more than I can say.

One would think that as Luke’s competency in Mandalorian combat improved, his teacher’s favour of him would improve as well. In Luke’s mind, that seems like the rational conclusion. Unfortunately, he’s beginning to think that Paz Vizsla is not a very rational person, and no amount of improvement seems to reflect in his teacher’s opinion of him. 

Luke _is_ doing better. He’s faster on his feet and quicker to anticipate maneuvers. Luke even handles the direct attempts at sabotage more gracefully. His advances, however, still demand a certain amount of raw aggression that he finds hard to summon up, even with Vizsla breathing down his neck. 

When they’re dismissed, Luke swaps into something not edged with sweat before he seeks out the Mand’alor. After the Mand’alor commented on it so specifically, the black of his robes stands out to him every time he pulls them on, although not necessarily in a manner that makes him self-conscious; merely self-aware. 

Luke has to wonder what the Mandalorians see when they look at him.

He finds the Mand’alor waiting outside, sitting at one of the tables outside a vendor’s shop. His son is close by, well within eyesight with a cluster of other children who play in the light of the early afternoon. When he notices Luke coming, the Mand’alor straightens up where he sits, and gestures to the empty chair across from him. 

“You’re holding up better today,” he observes, glancing Luke up and down before he sits.

“Thanks,” Luke says with a laugh, dragging his hand back through his unkempt hair and letting his palm linger on the back of his neck. Luke certainly didn’t think his aches were that obvious, but the Mand’alor clearly notices the difference within seconds of seeing him. 

From inside the shop behind them, a voice calls out in Mando’a, and the Mand’alor cocks his head towards the sound before glancing back at Luke.

“He wants to know--”

“If I’m thirsty,” Luke finishes, and he grins a bit sheepishly. “I’m learning -- and yes, sure. What should I order?” 

In lieu of a response, the Mand’alor calls out over his shoulder and the shopkeeper chuckles before vanishing. Shortly after, a steaming cup is placed in from of him, and Luke gratefully accepts with a smile. 

“What did you tell him?” Luke asks, his gaze following the shopkeeper as he leaves, “I _am_ learning, but I didn’t catch that.”

The Mand’alor leans his arm on the back of his seat, reclining as he looks at him. “I told him nothing spicy,” he says dully.

The taunt brings heat to Luke’s cheeks. He hides his face behind his cup as he raises his drink, inhaling the steam that comes off of the beverage. It’s some sort of tea, clearly: smelling strongly of citrus with something earthy underneath it. Blowing a cool puff of air over its surface, he waits before he takes a sip.

The Mand’alor doesn’t waste anymore time before getting right to business, tilting his head as he watches Luke from across the table. “If you’re the last of your kind,” he starts. “You’ve never trained anyone before, have you?”

Luke finds no reason to lie about it. He shakes his head, taking a tentative sip of his tea. “No, I haven’t,” he says honestly. “I tried to teach my sister, but it didn’t last long. She decided it wasn’t her path.” 

Humming thoughtfully, the Mand’alor rests one hand on the table. “Because she was busy with her own work, right?” he asks, deceptively casual. “With the New Republic?”

Luke pauses and the Mand’alor sounds remarkably calm. “She returned your message,” he says, “Senator Leia Organa: face of the Rebellion and former princess of Alderaan.” Lowering his voice, the Mand’alor looks him over. “Family is important. Right, your Highness?” 

Heat flooding up his neck, Luke sets his drink down. “I’m not a prince,” he insists shamefully. “I told you—“

“That you weren’t raised together, I know,” he says flatly, and Luke wishes he could get a read on his tone. “You told me that but didn’t think her career was worth mentioning?” 

“I didn’t want you to misunderstand,” Luke explains, but he knows it doesn’t justify it. “I promise you, I’m not here because of the New Republic.” For good measure, he adds, upfront and honest: “Please believe me.”

“If I didn’t believe you, you wouldn’t be here,” the Mand’alor replies directly. He seems to watch Luke for a moment, before Luke gets the impression that his gaze shifts, checking on the child a few feet away instead. “Relax,” he adds. “Drink your tea.”

Well. Luke narrows his eyes and he obeys — though he is reluctant about it. 

“If you were here for the Republic, you would’ve made a move by now,” he reasons simply. “Your messages to your sister are little more than small talk, so I believe you -- but you lied to me.”

Luke almost objects then he thinks better of it. He didn’t deceive him purposefully, but it was certainly a lie by omission, and one that he certainly realized he was undertaking the first time he mentioned Leia at all.

“I was worried you wouldn’t let me speak to her,” Luke admits openly. He finds no reason to not be upfront; the Mandalorians have been explicit about how much their bonds mean to them… surely he can understand Luke wanting to see his sister. 

The Mand’alor raises his chin slightly, and his voice is soft, thoughtful: “You spend so long telling me you’re not my enemy,” he observes steadily. “Only to act like I’d be yours.” 

That catches Luke off guard. The Mand’alor doesn’t state it like a criticism, since surely it’s an expected response given how he’d bristled so immediately at their first meeting. Instead, he speaks as if he’s been thinking about it, as if what Luke might think of him has been weighing on his mind. Like he’s trying to puzzle out Luke’s perception of him.

“So we’re not enemies,” Luke replies, the question inherent to the statement coloring his voice. If that’s the truth, he needs to hear it spoken out loud, needs to establish without a doubt that the Mand’alor doesn’t consider him a danger. There’s too much that he can’t read behind his steady tone and the unchanging face of his helmet, and it makes Luke uncertain of their footing.

“Again,” the Mand’alor says, sounding just a little taxed. “If we were, you wouldn’t be here.” 

Fair enough, although it means that now it’s his turn to wonder about the Mand’alor’s opinion of him. If they aren’t enemies, then what are they considered? Luke almost asks but he’s too afraid of the answer. Luke lets the comment sit, taking another gulp of his tea as he turns his head, watching the Child as he plays among his friends. The Mand’alor follows his gaze, sighing across from him. 

“He’s so young,” the Mand’alor begins quietly. “I don’t even know if you could actually teach him anything before the end of both our lifetimes. He’s already lived for fifty years.” 

Fifty years? Luke glances at the Child with new perspective. He somehow hadn’t even considered that, but once it’s spoken he feels like he should have known. Yoda boasted about living for nine hundred years, afterall, and given that he’s the only frame of reference Luke has, there’s no telling if he passed late or early for his kind.

“He’s older than I am, and barely walking,” The Mand’alor continues softly. “Let alone able to learn or train in our ways.”

There’s an unspoken agony implied in that, and Luke isn’t sure that the Mand’alor wants him drawing attention to it: that, even if blessed with old age, he could still leave behind his son before he hears his first words. 

“I could still try,” Luke offers gently, and the Mand’alor turns back to face him. “He might not understand anything I have to say, but maybe I could show him.” Thinking for a moment, he cups his hands around his mug. “Or, if nothing else, I could explain it all to you… and your people could pass it down.”

The Mand’alor goes very still, and Luke feels… something ebb off of him. It’s hard for him to pin it down to any one word, but it sits in his chest with an ache.

“Your lineage could die out, Jedi,” he tells him quietly, and the tone of his voice is painfully genuine. He’s not goading or mocking, but rather terribly sincere. “If the two of you are truly the last, then your ways could end. He’s too young to be anyone’s apprentice. You can’t even guarantee he’d be taught any lessons you leave behind. Why would you do that?”

As the Mand’alor watches him, Luke meets his gaze evenly, a melancholy smile touching the corner of his mouth.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” he answers simply, and the Mand’alor seems to have no reply. 

The small space between them feels abruptly tense -- not out of aggression or nerves, but due to the magnitude of the subject that hangs over them. The silence hangs a moment too long, and, expression pinching, Luke tries to find some distraction... and an idea strikes. Bending forward, he collects a handful of stones from the ground at their feet and lays them out on the table between them. 

Even through his helmet, Mand’alor glances down with obvious scrutiny. “I don’t think they’ll approve of you making a mess of their tables,” he remarks. 

Grinning in the corner of his mouth, Luke indulges his concern. Eyes fluttering, he lifts his hand and he extends his will. With the barest effort, the stones lift: rising from the table and floating in the air before them. 

“Nevermind then,” the Mand’alor notes flatly, though his dry humour doesn’t quite hide the awe. 

“It’s not magic,” Luke explains patiently, gently extending his hand out over the table. Palm up, his fingers idly curl in a steady rhythm, like he’s slowly beckoning forward to an unseen figure. The stones spin under his coaxing, spiralling like a system of planets in orbit. “The Force is everywhere: in every living thing, in every breath and gesture. Sometimes, the Force speaks more clearly to a certain person… and I don’t know if there’s any one reason why, but the barrier between those people and the energy that surrounds us is thinner, and it allows the Force to flow through us.”

Luke is so busy speaking that he doesn’t immediately realize they have an audience. A tiny, clawed hand touches his boot, and he glances down to see the Mand’alor’s son peering up at him with huge eyes, his mouth open in quiet excitement and recognition. 

Risking a glance at the Mand’alor, he takes a gamble: “Can I pick him up?” he asks hesitantly, nervousness creeping up his neck.

The Mand’alor takes his time before responding, tapping his fingertips on the table, and eventually he speaks. “With your hands,” he allows. 

Luke accepts the condition gladly. Beaming, he reaches down to carefully collect the Child from the ground. As he does it, Luke has the troubling realization: he can’t remember the last time he’s had the opportunity to hold a baby, and that thought lingers with a stab of longing. On an impulse, Luke almost tucks the Child against his chest, or places him on his knee… but that certainly seems too bold, and -- not without an obvious disappointment -- he sets him on the table instead.

The Child settles in easily. He lets out an excited, cooing sound, his tiny fingers seeking the stones floating just beyond his reach. Luke can’t help grinning at him, and he wills one of the stones close enough for him to catch in one clawed hand. 

“You said he used his powers before,” Luke says, purposefully leading, and the Mand’alor hums behind his helmet. 

“He saved me,” the Mand’alor reminds and considers for a moment before he moves, tapping one gloved finger against the signet on his shoulder. “Lifted a mudhorn like it was nothing.” 

A mudhorn. Luke glances at the Child, who stares at the moving stones in quiet fascination. It’s surreal to think that he’s capable of something like that… then again, that had been one of Yoda’s lessons, hadn’t it? Not to judge by appearances? 

“Is that why you wear it?” he asks, “I haven’t seen any other Mandalorian with that symbol.”

“It’s ours,” the Mand’alor affirms, nodding at his son. “His and mine; our clan of two.”

Luke lets that thought linger for a moment. He hasn’t quite figured out the differing tribes yet, never mind the explicit details involved between clans. The simplest difference is the almost even divide between those who will and won’t remove their helmets. Going even more specific than that, certain Mandalorians paint their armour, some don’t, among countless other minor details that he can’t keep track of. Luke _is_ curious, but he wonders if it’s insensitive to pry.

“You can do those things too,” the Mand’alor continues quietly. “What you did in the desert.” Slowly, where it rests on the surface of the table, his hand clenches and opens restlessly. “You’ve trained; I understand that, but he’s so _young_.”

There’s an obvious despair in his voice, quiet but significant, and Luke’s shoulders slump. He _is_ a good father, and he takes that title with an obvious pride. The idea of that changing somehow, and him abruptly becoming insufficient, clearly sits on him with an ominous weight. 

“I wonder…” Luke muses out loud. “If it’s _because_ he’s so young.”

The Mand’alor cocks his head to one side, and Luke quickly continues. “When I was learning, a lot of it involved getting out of your own head,” he explains. “Not letting your thoughts betray you. When you second guess yourself, you fail. But with him…” 

Luke reaches out, carefully touching the edge of one long pointed ear, and the Child turns his smile up towards him. 

“He’s too young to have any inhibition,” he realizes. “No expectations or preconceived notions to hold him back. He’s simply acting on what he feels. If he feels like he can lift a mudhorn, what’s telling him otherwise?” 

The power he must have… an unhindered connection to the Force granted only by the pure, limitless mind of a child. 

Luke glances back at the Mand’alor, trying to get a read on his expressionless face. He’s looking down at his son, silent and considering, and he doesn’t waver in his gaze as he speaks to Luke. 

”Tell me more.”

\--

It continues on like that: in the mornings, Luke trains for combat or attends his lessons in Mando’a -- or, on the more exhausting days: both -- and afterward he meets with the Mand’alor to talk about the Force.

It gets steadily easier. The more they talk, no matter where they go, it’s as if the Child can tell what they’re discussing, and he always finds his way back to them. Whenever Luke makes a demonstration, he watches with wide and enraptured eyes, and as time goes on, Luke gets a little bolder too. He stops asking for permission every time he touches him, and even goes so far as to set him in his lap the next few times they meet. 

“I think he likes our talks,” Luke observes with a laugh, as the Child stubbornly reaches for his face even when they’re parting ways. His father accepts him with a thoughtful hum, tucking him close. 

“I think he likes _you_ ,” the Mand’alor counters, and he takes his leave before Luke can linger on that too long. 

It goes on like that for several weeks. The Mand’alor listens to him with genuine interest, his vocabulary in Mando’a expands -- though his enunciation apparently still leaves much to be desired -- and even his fighting skills improve. 

It helps that they’ve recently set hand-to-hand aside. Vizsla has spent the better part of the last week showing them proper form with a quarterstaff, and Luke’s history with a lightsaber gives him a significant advantage. 

But Vizsla is never so easily appeased, and today he seems to be in a particularly sour mood. Luke can’t help the exasperation that swells bitterly in his chest as he sense Viszla coming nearer, and any attempt to keep his focus on his drills is useless. Stepping between Luke and his sparring partner, Viszla catches Luke’s arm mid-swing, his voice growling behind the depths of his helmet. 

“That’s not the technique,” he scolds, and frustration gets the better of Luke all at once. With his hands still firm on his quaterstaff, he doesn’t think to hold his tongue.

“But it works,” Luke quips defiantly, though he realizes his mistake the moment the words leave his mouth. 

Vizsla’s hand tightens on Luke’s arm. He turns his head, gesturing at Luke’s sparring partner, who surrenders their staff with wordless intimidation before backing away. The other students follow suit: giving them the floor without even needing to be told. 

Here they go again. Luke sighs, and he fixes his stance -- but something catches the corner of his eye. While the other students are backing away into the stands, someone else is slipping in along the edges of the training ring: the Mand’alor and his son settling into the sidelines to watch. 

Great. They’ve arrived just in time to see Luke get humiliated.

Heaving a breath, Luke spins the quarterstaff in his hand, adjusting himself to the weight of it before Vizsla descends on him. 

Luke ducks, and with the power behind Vizsla’s swing, he doesn’t want to imagine how darkly he’d have been bruised if the blow connected. Stubbornly, Vizsla pursues him, and at first all Luke can do is block his blows. 

“You’re a disappointment,” Vizsla tells him bitterly, “Mandalorians once craved the opportunity to fight a Jedi. You were supposed to be formidable opponents -- and look at you: you can barely stay on your feet.”

_Because you won’t let me fight like a Jedi_ , Luke almost counters, but he thinks better of his smart mouth this time. 

To his credit, he _does_ stay on his feet -- at least for longer than usual. Luke holds his own: ducking and returning blows in kind, but there’s the simple fact that Vizsla towers over him -- twice his weight and heavily armoured -- and Luke is essentially fighting with a hand tied behind his back.

His grip falters when he’s knocked off his feet, the quarterstaff slipping from his hold and clattering on the floor. With a huff of exertion, Luke rolls onto his stomach, reaching to reclaim it. He’s _just_ shy of grabbing it, his fingers ghosting against worn wood -- but he’s cut short when Vizsla’s knee digs down between his shoulders. 

“You’re wasting my time,” Vizsla goads. “Come on, Jedi.” 

Biting back a groan, Luke struggles and stretches. He’s so close. He just needs even the smallest inch of give in Vizsla’s hold. His fingers twitch and he strains--

\--and the quarterstaff slaps neatly into his waiting palm.

Eyes widening, Luke’s breath catches in his throat. When he lifts his head, he sees the Child: seated in his father’s lap with his tiny hands outstretched.

He’s trying to help him. That fact settles in with a sharp, stark clarity -- along with the realization that Vizsla absolutely will not see it that way.

Above him, Vizsla’s fury is so tangible that it feels like it might scald him. Luke realizes his intent seconds before it happens, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

“I warned you,” Vizsla reminds darkly. “ _No tricks._ ”

Vizsla’s quarterstaff slams down onto the back of his hand with harsh, unforgiving force, and Luke’s vision temporarily whites out: pain rocketing up the entire length of his arm as his cybernetic cracks in a storm of sparks and shattered metal. 

Luke isn’t sure if he cries out. He must, given how he loses time to the sheer agony of it, and it’s the sound of the Mand’alor’s voice that brings him back to reality. 

“ _Paz!_ ”

Even in the state that he’s in, the difference in him stands out to Luke with terrifying significance. He stalks forward, voice booming from the metallic echo of his helmet, and his cloak billows behind him like the clouds of some terrible storm. 

He looks nothing short of terrifying. 

Vizsla stands, relieving the pressure from his back, and Luke twists himself as much as he can muster to look at them. Unflinching as he lords above him, Vizsla holds himself tall, pointing the quarterstaff at his ruler in defiance. 

“What’s come over you?” he accuses hotly. “You’re going to defend this outsider? This failure?”

“Move away from him,” the Mand’alor orders, and the change in his voice grinds like a knife against bone. There’s no trace of the softness there, even along its edges, and all Luke can sense from him is cascading waves of violent fury. 

“He’s not worthy of our ways,” Vizsla snaps cruelly. “That was obvious from the start, but you were too blinded to see it. You let him among our people and into our teachings -- and what’s _worse_ , you are meant to lead us all as your tribe, and yet you let this ancient enemy so near that he may as well be the one to raise your _son--_ ” 

That proves to be the breaking point. The Mand’alor moves and in one sharp, swift motion, the Darksaber is drawn from his belt and held gleaming against Vizsla’s throat. 

The room becomes unnaturally, eerily still, and Luke realizes just how heavily he’s breathing. The Darksaber, looking like a piece of night sky carved out and given violent purpose, rests steadily in the Mand’alor’s hand, and it’s like nothing Luke has ever seen before. He holds it level to the side of Vizsla’s neck -- not a threat, nor intimidation, but a reminder.

“Who am I?” he asks.

Vizsla keeps his posture tall, but his voice loses its aggression, quieted into something subdued -- if not ashamed. “Mand’alor,” he answers.

“Do you doubt it?” he asks, his voice deceptively quiet, soft in a way that’s ominous rather than intimate. “Do you challenge me for it, as is your right, if you truly question my ability to rule?” 

For a moment, they simply stand like that, and Luke can only stare up at them, shuddering with the effort of his own laboured breathing.

“No, Mand’alor,” Vizsla relents quietly. 

The Darksaber withdraws, lowered and tucked back away under the layers of his cloak. 

“Train him properly,” the Mand’alor orders, his voice tight, “without your shameless, embarrassing grudge. And think before you ever mention my son like that again.” 

\--

Two medics look Luke over before they allow him to leave. At first, their main goal is to steady his adrenaline and help give him something for the pain -- which Luke is grateful for -- but as they examine his hand, they concur that the damage is something of an undertaking. Not entirely confident themselves, they explain to him that they’ll have to call down someone more equipped with appropriate skills for cybernetics, and the idea of waiting around for that to happen makes Luke feel nauseated. He’s already been sitting here for so long, being spoken _about_ more than spoken _to,_ and it’s clear most of those around don’t realize how coherent his grasp of the language has become. 

It’s only after multiple efforts of insisting that he can fix it himself that they actually permit him to go home and do so. He’s escorted, at least, and he politely denies any assistance before he closes the door behind him. 

Quite honestly, he’s sore, stressed and soaked with sweat, and he just wants a moment alone.

Well, mostly alone. Artoo makes an alarmed beep when he sees him, and Luke gives him a worn, exhausted smile in return. The few slow, unsteady steps to the kitchen table feel like an eternity and he practically collapses into his seat, wincing as he shrugs his broken hand out from the sling they fashioned around his shoulders. 

Artoo whistles as if in sympathy, and Luke chuckles a little. “Yeah, tell me about it,” Luke mutters, wincing as he tries to flex his fingers and only gets a surge of sharp pain up his arm in response. 

Luke simply stares at his hand for a moment. The synthetic skin has ripped, revealing the meshwork of wiring and cold, unfeeling metal. It isn’t giving off sparks anymore, which should be a good sign, but it isn’t necessarily promising that his sensation is swinging wildly between pain and numbness. 

His head feels numb as well, but for entirely separate reasons. He keeps thinking about the Mand’alor: his voice booming with unspeakable fury, the Darksaber alight in his hand, and the sheer intimidation he displayed when his authority was challenged. 

Zooming off into the house, Artoo disappears, only to return quickly with a kit and tools for Luke to work with. Accepting them with a sigh, Luke steadies his shoulders and gets started. 

The most unsettling part is how he has to peel back more of the synthetic skin over his palm to see what he’s doing. That done, he tries his best to get an idea of what he’s working with. Blunt trauma is actually one of the worse things to deal with; several cracks are spread throughout very complex machinery, and Luke isn’t entirely confident that he can tinker it back together properly.

The other unfortunate thing is that he’s working with his left hand now, trying to balance a very delicate piece of work with a significantly clumsier grip -- and, naturally, there’s the inherent issue with trying to mend his own body. He can’t help himself from flinching, recoiling from his own self-afflicted stings. Luke sighs, tucking one tool between his teeth while he fumbles for another.

He’s barely made any progress when there’s a knock at his door. Narrowing his eyes, Luke glances at Artoo, who gives a nervous whirl of uncertainty. 

Lifting his good hand, Luke focuses, and when he sweeps his fingers through the air, the door moves with it. Given what got him this injury in the first place, maybe he shouldn’t be using the Force, but he’s reached a point where he’s past indulging discretion. 

The door opens, and after a second of hesitation, the Mand’alor himself steps in from the outside.

Plucking the tool from his mouth, Luke straightens in his seat. When the Mand’alor comes forward, his gait is strangely tentative, as if he expects Luke to tell him to leave with every step he takes. Luke does no such thing, and the Mand’alor makes it all the way to the edge of the table before he speaks.

“How are you?” he asks, his voice quiet behind his helmet, and the question feels weighted -- likely anticipating for it to be slapped back in his face. Luke doesn’t spurn him, but his weariness shows through with an edge of irritation.

“I’m managing,” Luke replies, his tone deliberately level. 

Nodding his head, the Mand’alor simply stands for a moment. He feels… maybe Luke’s exhaustion makes his intuition muddy, since it’s hard to tell -- or maybe it’s simpler than that, and the Mand’alor isn’t certain of his own feelings either. 

“Vizsla won’t be training you any longer,” he starts, the delivery of his words oddly stilted -- as if he’s run over how to say this too many times in his own head. “If you do want to keep training.” 

Narrowing his eyes, Luke tilts his head up at him. “Do you think that I wouldn’t?” Luke asks, and it’s an honest question, not a goading one. “Because of Vizsla?”

“No,” the Mand’alor answers, almost too immediately. “Because of me.”

Slowly, Luke heaves a sigh, his entire chest moving with the depth of it as he gazes up at the Mand’alor. At this exact moment, Luke doesn’t have an answer for that statement. Exhaustion bleeds away at him, and he doesn’t know if he can trust his own judgment. 

The silence visibly weighs on the Mand’alor, his posture shifting with uncertainty, and he speaks again.

“What happened,” he begins tensely, sounding like he’s deliberately pushing every word out of his mouth. “I didn’t want you to see that.”

Luke’s lips form a thin line, and he straightens his shoulders, leaning back into his seat. “Do you regret it?” he asks slowly. 

“Yes,” the Mand’alor answers, more quickly than Luke expects -- but it only increases his suspicions, rather than abating them.

“Do you regret what you did?” Luke presses, his voice steady and firm. “Or do you regret that I saw it?” 

The Mand’alor says nothing -- which is all the answer that Luke needs. 

Luke sighs again. His eyes flutter shut, his good hand raising to pinch the bridge of his nose. He knows it isn’t his place; the Mandalorians are warriors, and Vizsla’s insult was likely answered as expected from their ruler. Still: the fury, the swiftness of his temper and the threat of violence that felt so horrifically sincere… it sits on him unpleasantly. 

It’s as if Luke had forgotten where he was. Who he was dealing with.

“Would you let me help you?” 

Luke opens his eyes, his brows raising as he glances up at the Mand’alor. The offer is so softly spoken, drenched in quiet submission, and it takes him off guard. Luke watches him, feeling the remorse and dread flowing from him, thick and sickly. 

Wordlessly, he nods his head, and the Mand’alor takes a seat across from him. His motions are slow, carefully measured, as if he expects Luke to flinch from him at every gesture. That in itself is an uncomfortable thought, and Luke wonders if the Mand’alor oftens feels at war with himself when they’re together -- haunted by the idea that he might be seen as monstrous. 

The table is small, given the relatively modest space of the house, so it’s easy for the Mand’alor to reach across the surface of it. One gloved hand cups the back of Luke’s wrist, while the other takes the tool in hand and starts to work. 

His expression pinching, Luke’s fingers twitch, but he holds himself still. Even with his fidgeting, the Mand’alor holds him with a remarkably gentleness, applying only the mildest pressure to keep him steady as he works. 

“I didn’t know,” he says, clearly referring to the metal that replaces flesh and blood, “I assumed there would be… something, since you keep it covered.”

“Mh,” Luke intones, easily recognizing the conversation for what it is. The Mand’alor is trying to change the subject, and Luke allows him that brief reprieve. “Even with the synthetic skin, it’s good to keep the elements off of it, considering the climate.” Smiling a bit grimly, he adds. “Never would’ve guessed that a little dirt in the joints would be the least of my worries.” 

Luke wonders if he shouldn’t have made light of it, given the guilt that already hangs over the Mand’alor as they sit together. He tends to Luke’s hand like he’s making amends, and teasing him likely feels torturous. 

“You’re good at this,” Luke remarks, not without some obvious surprise, and the Mand’alor hums.

“Similar to fixing my armour. I can at least patch it, for the time being,” he reasons simply, working away as Luke’s fingers idly twitch and clench. “Can I ask you how you lost it?”

The question should be innocent enough, but it cuts through Luke to his depths of his chest. He could always say no, which is likely something the Mand’alor would respect, however… His expression softens and he finds himself drawn to speak.

“My father,” Luke answers quietly. 

The Mand’alor immediately ceases in his work. His gaze, which had been unwaveringly focused on Luke’s hand, snaps up to look him in the eye, and Luke holds the contact without wavering.

“Your father did this to you?” he reiterates slowly, as if wishing he’s misheard him, and his voice is cold in a way that Luke has never heard before -- not with Luke when he arrived, and not with Vizsla today.

Luke merely holds his gaze, letting the thought settle in, and the Mand’alor bends his helmet again. Anger pulses off in him abruptly, darkly simmering, and it’s as if he can’t bear to look at Luke without it swelling to the point where it might burst. 

His fury, however, seems to give him focus, rather than distract him. He makes short work of Luke’s hand, sensation tingling back through his arm with a comforting warmth rather than a lingering ache. When his task is done, the Mand’alor sets his tools down, but his hand doesn’t loosen its grip on Luke’s wrist.

He’s silent for a moment, as if considering, and when he speaks it’s with careful purpose. “We have a saying,” he explains as he keeps his gaze on Luke’s hand. “ _Gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori'wadaas'la_. Nobody cares who your father was, only the father you'll be.”

Tension prickles up Luke’s back, a defensive flare kicking up in the pit of his stomach. Irrationally, he realizes his reaction will seem hypocritical and difficult to understand. He knows what the Mand’alor means, and the comfort he is trying to offer, but Luke…

“ _I_ care about who my father was,” he tells him firmly. 

The Mand’alor looks up again, and Luke is painfully aware of the contradiction he’s made himself to be. He can’t expect him to understand -- how could he? 

Then, with a terrible ache in his chest, a realization clicks: he’s never told anyone else about this. Except for Leia, who was tangled up in it herself, Luke has never tried to make anyone else understand or sympathize. He’s merely held it in his chest, coveted close and tightly wound.

In Luke’s mind, his father is redeemed. He knows it; he _feels_ it. He died as he should have lived: heroic and triumphant in the face of evil.

However.

That doesn’t erase a legacy of terror and darkness. Luke wants to think of him that way: selflessly defending his child at the cost of his own life… he wants it so much that he almost tells himself a lie. After everything, after all that he suffered for and sacrificed -- he doesn’t want to believe that, deep down, it still wasn’t enough.

“Darth Vader,” he says on an impulse he can’t name, and speaking it out loud feels like a weight crushing down against his ribs. “He was my father.” 

Luke isn’t sure how it happens. Once he starts talking, it’s like the dam has broken, and it’s hard to stop. 

“He was a pilot and Jedi Knight,” he explains, his voice unconsciously picking up speed as he goes on. “He was corrupted, thinking that my mother died and that his children were lost with her, and he fell to the Dark Side. They hid us from him, hoping to protect us, and I never knew -- until I faced him as a Jedi against Sith and he told me the truth.

“He died protecting me,” he continues, his voice wavering just a little, so slight that it could be missed. “Everyone believes the Emperor was killed when the Death Star fell, but he was dead long before that. When I refused to join him, he tried to kill me and my father gave his life to save mine. I know it doesn’t mend all the damage that was done, all the suffering, but -- his real name is Anakin Skywalker, and that’s who he was when he died.” 

Realizing just how much he’s said, Luke goes very still. His heart hammering in his throat, Luke stares at the Mand’alor sitting across his table, and his chest feels tight.

“And my name is Luke,” he says stupidly, trying to smile but the expression falters. “I don’t know if your people ever told you, but maybe not, because I’ve never heard you say it.” 

Luke wishes he would say it. Honestly, right now, with an embarrassed heat creeping steadily up the back of his neck, Luke wishes he would say _anything_ …

Slowly, the Mand’alor’s hand tightens around Luke’s. He grips there, and with slow, deliberate purpose, his thumb rolls over the soft skin on the underside of Luke’s wrist. 

Leaning forward, he rises from his seat -- just enough to reach his other hand across the table, cupping the back of Luke’s head in one steady, sure motion. Instinctively, all Luke can do at first is to stay very still, though his chest twists with something like agony when the Mand’alor’s fingers bury in his hair. The warm, worn leather of his gloves catches, pulling at soft strands as he holds him tight.

“Luke,” he says, and his pulse _races—_

Pushing his palm flat at the base of Luke’s skull, the Mand’alor draws him in, urging him closer until Luke’s forehead bumps against his helmet. It’s a firm, steady pressure, given with deliberate intent, and close as they are, Luke can even hear his breathing. It’s a short, unsteady sound, and his voice carries a tremble when he speaks. 

“My name is Din Djarin.” 

Luke’s throat feels tight, his heartbeat thudding in his ears, and he lets out a shuddering exhale that fogs against the dark sheen of the Mand’alor’s visor. Din’s visor. Din’s helmet against his head. Din’s hands in his hair. Din, Din, Din---

“Din Djarin,” Luke repeats softly, breathless as his lips turn up in a fragile, disbelieving laugh. Unthinkingly, he returns the gesture: the hand that Din repaired lifting to cradle the back of his helmet and keep him close. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Luke isn’t sure how long he lingers like that, listening to the sound of Din’s breath catch and shudder. With a careful slowness that betrays reluctance, Din withdraws his hand and leans back into his seat. As Luke watches him across the table, he’s almost certain he’ll stay -- but then he rises abruptly to his feet. 

“I’ll see about parts,” he states, his voice tight. “For your hand. In case the patchwork doesn’t hold.” 

Glancing up at him, Luke waits, not needing his powers to sense something unspoken on his lips. Instead of voicing it, Din merely holds his ground, his hands loosening and tightening at his sides.

“Good night,” he says instead, and disappointment settles like a weight in Luke’s stomach.

“ _Ret'urcye mhi_ ,” Luke replies, trying to smirk and uncertain if the expression falters too much. 

He expects Din to sigh, or reprimand his enunciation again, but all he does is stiffly nod, taking his leave from Luke’s house without another word.

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re kidding me,” Cara laughs, resting her elbows on the table as she leans eagerly forward. “You’ve been here how long and someone’s already swooning over you, flyboy? Who kissed you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, I get to indulge my other secret pairing agenda. 
> 
> Thank you again to everyone for their very generous comments and support!

“What?!”

Luke winces as Leia’s image flickers before him, her eyes round and furious. Shifting a little awkwardly where he sits, Luke is grateful that the fuzzy quality of the holograms won’t give away too much of his expression. For the first time since he’s arrived on this planet, the two of them speak on an open channel. The Mand’alor’s guilt over his hand makes him especially pliant to Luke’s requests, and he had even been granted privacy to speak with his sister.

Which, in retrospect, may have been a mistake, given how Leia takes the opportunity to shout. 

“Luke,” Leia says sternly. “You can’t just go around telling people these things.” 

Luke can’t blame her. To her, the whole ordeal must sound outrageous. Here Luke is, in foreign territory, with a race of people considered to be very hostile... and, all while fully knowing their devastating history with the Empire, he’s admitted that he’s the son of the Sith Lord who acted as the right hand of the Emperor. 

It certainly sounds like a good way to get himself killed.

“I wasn’t going to lie to him, Leia,” he argues, as if he hasn’t ever deliberately skewed the truth before. She recognizes that hypocrisy just as well as Luke does, and it shows on her face. She doesn’t give him an inch about it.

“You don’t have to lie, but you don’t have to put your heart on your sleeve,” she entreats, concern bleeding in over her anger. “You don’t owe that to anyone who just happens to ask. Do you know what I say, when I’m asked who my father was?”

That’s an easy question. “Senator Bail Organa,” Luke answers, without hesitation.

“And that’s the truth,” Leia states firmly. 

Luke sighs, smiling despite himself. He remembers the saying that the Mand’alor recited… and the emphasis among their people about family going far beyond blood. Leia certainly has an easier time with that sentiment; honestly, she’d probably fit right in here. Between the two of them, their upbringings simply had a different tone. Leia grew up not knowing any other parents than those who raised her, but Luke always knew his father existed, and the legend of who he was lurked in his mind like an unobtainable fantasy; a sort of escapism when his life on Tatooine was grim and insufficient. 

Not to say his aunt and uncle didn’t raise him right or do their best to take care of him… just the opposite. However, the connection always felt separated by some degree: the shadow of his father loomed over them, keeping his uncle from filling the void left by his absence. 

Luke wonders how insane he must seem to a Mandalorian; even Leia thinks he’s overinvested at the least, and unhealthily attached at worst -- never mind how Luke must look to a culture prides itself on parenthood and family bonds. 

Luke tries to honour his father’s image, and carry his father with him in how he presents himself as a Jedi Knight, but he would never dare deny his actions to anyone, or make him seem infallible. It’s complicated, Luke knows it, and he doesn’t expect anyone to understand, let alone the Mand’alor. In a Mandalorian’s mind -- in the Mand’alor’s mind -- his father surely should have been dead to him the moment he treated Luke with violence. 

Funny, how Din and the Jedi who trained him would actually agree on something. 

“I’m not in any danger here,” Luke assures her. “I wanted him to hear it from me honestly, rather than risk it being exposed later on. I don’t want to lose his trust in me.”

A little guiltily, he omits the Mand’alor’s scope of knowledge about Leia herself, and the natural conclusion that could be drawn from Luke’s relationship to her. Speaking of trust -- while Luke is perhaps foolishly faithful that the information will be kept in confidence, there’s no reason to give her undue anxiety when she’s already surely dealing with enough.

As if sensing his head is somewhere else, Leia rests her chin in her palm, eyes narrowing a little as she considers him. “ _Does_ he trust you?” 

Luke pauses. He thinks about the Mand’alor: about how he lets Luke hold his son, about the way he rose to his defense, about the quiet anger when he learned about his hand, and the way he touched their heads together. About his name, freed from the confines of his mask like a quiet offering.

“I think so,” Luke replies softly. 

Leia accepts that well enough, though she sighs. “I miss you,” she says, and even with the distance between them, Luke feels it with an ache in his chest. “How much longer do you think you’ll be there?”

“Well, my progress is a little stalled,” Luke admits self-deprecatingly, raising his hand and letting her see how his fingers nervously twitch. It’s on-and-off, and distinctly not painful, but certainly not reliable. “But once I finish the training, they’ll accept me, and I can leave teachings here for the Mand’alor’s son -- for when he’s old enough to use them. Then I’ll--”

Once the statement leaves his lips, Luke finds himself oddly quieted by his own words. Then that’s all he can do, isn’t it? That was what he set out to do when he arrived here, and he’ll have accomplished it. That isn’t news to him. So why does it lurk in his chest with so much dread? 

“Then I’ll be done,” Luke finishes a bit stiffly. Leia squints, sharp enough to catch his unease, but she chooses not to draw attention to it. 

“Stay in touch, okay?” she says instead. “I love you.”

“Love you,” Luke repeats easily, smiling as he signs off, though once her image fades into static, his lips curve down again. 

The next few days spoil the comfortable routine that Luke has developed here on Mandalore. He isn’t expected to train, half because of Vizsla and half due to his hand, which still occasionally spasms or stiffens on its own accord. It leaves him oddly restless in the mornings, although he tries to fill his time with his own meditations and exercises.

In the afternoons, his time as both student of Mando’a and teacher of the Force alike still continues -- though when it comes to the latter, the Mand’alor seems remarkably more quieted every time they meet. In someone else, Luke might almost call his attitude uncertain; maybe he’s just still feeling the sting of embarrassment from his encounter with Vizsla, or maybe it’s the knowledge Luke imparted on him making him wary the longer it sits.

Or maybe it’s nothing at all, and Luke is projecting his own muddled emotions. All the free time without a physical outlet has made him too introspective. No matter what he does, he finds himself coming back to the inevitable end of all this in his mind, to the Mand’alor himself, and the almost warm bit of rapport he had started to carve out with him over the course of their talks together. 

It aches in a way that surprises him when he lingers on it too long. Every time he sees him, Luke worries about that warmth slipping away, and he wishes the Mand’alor -- Din -- he wishes _Din_ would voice whatever uneasy distance has fallen over them.

That’s still a new concept to rewire into his brain, a notion that’s settled into his head like a mantra: _Din, Din, Din_. 

Luke still hasn’t addressed him as such out loud; he isn’t sure if that’s a rule that he’ll unintentionally break. 

He should clarify that somehow. That thought lingers on the forefront of his mind as he makes his way to the Armorer’s forge. He finds her settled at her station, a hologram of what will be Luke’s repaired hand hovering before her. 

“You’re just in time,” she says in lieu of a greeting. Her hand reaches out, gesturing to a package at her side. “The replacement parts for your cybernetic have arrived.” 

Adjusting his cloak around him, Luke kneels opposite of her, tilting his head as he examines the hologram. “I haven’t seen you in awhile,” he observes with a smile, and her helmet turns towards him as if the sentiment surprises her.

“Yes. I’ve been preoccupied,” she tells him, her hand touching the hologram and increasing its size to illuminate the critical pieces. “Most recently with this, but also with the mythosaur -- for both of which I have you to thank.” 

Brows raising, Luke’s voice softens. “The mythosaur?” he repeats, leaning forward in obvious curiosity. “What do you mean by that?” 

The Armorer taps away at the hologram, undeterred. “When you brought the mythosaur to us, the Mand’alor came to me and asked if I could honour the old ways, and construct armour and weaponry from its bones,” she explains. “The Mandalorians of old once took every piece of the great beasts they had slain and gave it purpose. The art died out along with the mythosaurs themselves, but it would do well to revive the practice, given the opportunity.” 

“You can do that?” he asks, brows raising. “Are they really that strong?

“I can in theory,” she says dryly, and Luke can imagine the smirk under her helmet. “It will require more research on my part. The bones are quite dense and actually very formidable. It’s nothing compared to Beskar, but it has its own merits.” 

She shifts her position, the gold of her helmet reflecting the cool blue of the hologram before her. “Personally, I believe the Mand’alor is more interested in the symbolism of the armour, rather than its actual usefulness in battle,” she continues. “Your gesture made quite the impression, Master Jedi.” 

Luke’s chest twists, and he ducks his head somewhat as relief washes through him. He had misread Din’s reaction, then? He wasn’t angry, but overwhelmed instead? “I… thought he was upset with me,” he admits sheepishly, grinning up at her a little.

“Upset with you?” the Armorer repeats, and Luke wonders if this is the first time he’s heard her sound taken off guard. “Did you really think he would balk at a gift of that proportion?” 

Luke can’t help but flush at her phrasing. _A gift_. Luke would sound foolish if he says he hadn’t meant it that way, but hearing it called out into the open brings a self consciousness of its own, and he ducks his head. Still, she’s right: was he not entirely motivated by the knowledge of how much the mythosaur meant to Din and his son? Even if he didn’t consciously admit it to himself, he dredged the great beast out of the sand purely for the two of them.

“I thought Jedi were known for their power of intuition,” the Armorer says, and it takes Luke a beat too long to realize she’s teasing him. Once it clicks, he huffs out a startled laugh. 

“No one’s perfect,” he admits with a shrug and a smile. 

“I suppose not,” she replies bemusedly, expanding the hologram in front of her to peer at it. “Your hand, however, will be close to it when I’m through.”

If this craft is new to her, it doesn’t show in the slightest. She easily gets to work on his cybernetic, isolating out the broken pieces of his hand and replacing them. She’s steady and methodical, and Luke knows better than to distract her with smalltalk. There’s only one moment where she pauses, confirming against the hologram that hovers next to them, before she continues, and Luke’s hand is back together in a matter of minutes. When she releases him, Luke tests it: flexing his fingers and turning his wrist without even one lingering sting pulsing through its circuits. 

“Return to me if you have any trouble with it,” she instructs, though Luke very much doubts that will be necessary.

“ _Vor entye,_ ” Luke tells her sincerely, grinning at her, and she hums thoughtfully as she packs her tools. 

“The Mand’alor is right,” she muses. “Your enunciation _is_ dreadful.” 

_Really?_ Luke’s shoulders slump. Do they have to tell him every time? More than that, however, a more pressing implication connects in his mind, distracting him. 

“How often does he talk to you about me?”

“Now and then,” The Armorer replies vaguely, and Luke follows her as she rises to her feet. “He asked me to fix your hand, and I inquired about your progress with the _Resol’nare_.”

Feigning a casual air, Luke nods his head, folding his hands in front of him as they walk outside. “And what did he say?” he asks cautiously. 

“He seemed optimistic about how things were proceeding,” she says. “He regrets not noticing Vizsla’s grudge earlier, since he believes it interfered.” She turns towards him, her tone curious. “You didn’t remark on it.” 

Luke shrugs a little. “It’s a privilege to be allowed to learn,” Luke reasons simply. “You took a chance on me. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.”

She simply watches him for a moment, taking that in, before she continues. “Vizsla is not a cruel person,” the Armorer clarifies. “He comes from an ancient line, and that instills him with a certain sense of obligation for our ways. We have been very close to destruction many times, and the Jedi have been our enemies far more often than they have been our allies.” 

Luke understands that well enough. He has been given a unique opportunity, considering how likely he could’ve been thrown back into the sand -- or worse, attacked or left to rot in a cell. He has the Armorer to thank for that. Luke watches her, the question knocking around in his mouth before he speaks it aloud. 

“Why did you help me?” Luke asks her, unable to resist the curiosity.

She takes a moment, merely walking at his side, as if she weighs her options before she replies. “I have intuition of my own,” she answers at length. 

Narrowing his eyes, Luke’s lips part -- but a sudden clamour interrupts before he gets the chance to speak. Across from them, a woman approaches from the direction of the main gates. Luke doesn’t recognize her, but given the welcoming greetings she gathers as she walks past, she’s well known here. She wears no helmet, and her armour doesn’t match any Mandalorian design that Luke has seen so far. What he does recognize, however, is the tattoo on her arm.

Luke’s brows raise. A Rebellion trooper? 

“Excuse me for a moment,” the Armorer says, stepping ahead to meet the woman halfway. Delight colours the woman’s handsome face at the sight of her, a grin pulling at her cheeks as she rushes towards her. Her hand raises to cup the back of the Armorer’s neck, urging her close until their foreheads touch -- and the gesture strikes Luke with obvious significance.

The Mand’alor touched Luke the same way, after he fixed his hand.

“Cara.”

As if summoned up by Luke’s thoughts, the Mand’alor appears. He approaches the woman -- Cara, who beams when she turns towards him. When they face each other, Luke expects the same greeting to be shared between them, but rather than touch the Mand’alor’s head at all, they simply clasp their hands together. 

Luke frowns to himself, feeling terribly like there’s something he’s missed.

After Cara releases his hand, the Armorer raises her helmet to regard her, her voice sounding dryly chastising. “You’re late.”

Cara scoffs, a lopsided smirk rising easily to her lips. “Missed you too, baby,” she replies, and her fist moves to nudge the bottom of her helmet: miming a playful punch to her chin as Luke stares on from a few steps away. Cocking her head to one side, Luke finally catches her attention. “So. Who’s the--”

She cuts herself short, recognition clicking visibly as her eyes widen. She scans him up and down, as if she doubts herself enough to double check -- or maybe she’s just hoping to be wrong. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she utters disbelievingly. 

“Cara,” the Mand’alor starts, gesturing towards him. “This is--”

“I _know_ who he is,” Cara insists hotly, her voice raising and she waves her arm towards Luke in obvious scrutiny. “You weren’t going to mention that you’ve got the Rebellion poster boy with you?” 

Heat rises to Luke’s face, and he tries his best to hide a self deprecating grin, but the Mand’alor speaks up in his defense before Luke can. “He’s not with the Republic right now,” he clarifies. “He’s here to help with the baby.” 

Cara doesn’t appear in the slightest bit dissuaded. “You’re serious?” she asks skeptically, her eyes wide as she huffs out a humorless laugh. “Your buddy here blew up the Death Star, and now he’s babysitting?” 

Well.

“Not exactly,” Luke replies tentatively, and Cara arches a brow at him.

“Come,” the Armorer interrupts, placing one gloved hand against Cara’s arm. “You’ve traveled far and it shows. If you clean yourself up now, you won’t be late for dinner.” 

“Yeah, because that’s my biggest worry right now,” Cara mutters sarcastically, but she takes the Armorer’s coaxing nonetheless. She casts Luke a distrustful glance before she leaves, and Luke frowns as he watches them go. 

“I recognize her tattoos,” Luke tells the Mand’alor as he turns to look at him. “For a veteran, she doesn’t seem to like me very much.” 

“Because Cara’s not a veteran,” the Mand’alor explains flatly, watching the two women disappear down the street. “She’s a deserter.” He shrugs one shoulder, still staring thoughtfully ahead, and Luke has to wonder what he’s thinking.

“She’ll be fine,” he adds. “Seeing someone like you just gets her hackles up.”

Luke chuckles a little, grinning as he shakes his head from side to side. 

“Should’ve led with that,” Luke replies dryly. “Technically, I’m a deserter too.” 

He expects the Mand’alor to laugh, but instead all he gives is a thoughtful hum. Shifting his weight, he at last turns his head back towards Luke.

“You should tell her that yourself,” he offers, seeming to pick his words slowly as he turns to face him. “I was going to ask you to eat with us tonight. If you wanted.”

“Oh,” Luke utters, blinking a little before he smiles, his chest feeling tight with excitement. “I’d be honoured, Mand’alor.” He offers him a little bow of his head, and absently he worries if that seems patronizing, although the gesture is utterly heartfelt. 

The Mand’alor nods stiffly before he leaves him, and Luke feels again like there’s something he’s missed.

\--

“Alderaan?” 

From where she sits across the table, Cara nods her head. “You should let me tell Leia,” Luke insists excitedly, raising his voice to be heard over the busy thrum of the dining hall. “She could clear your name with the Republic.”

“Oh, why am I not surprised?” Cara asks in a drawl, though her tone is more amused than hostile now. She helps herself to seconds from the spread of food before them, not at all deterred by any of the spices that still hit Luke’s senses like an assault. “You’re really on speaking terms with the princess, golden boy?” 

Sitting at Luke’s elbow, the Mand’alor feeds the Child tiny scraps of meat and he speaks up before Luke gets the chance. “She’s his sister,” the Mand’alor explains, and Cara’s eyes widen.

“You’re serious?” she asks flatly, her eyes rolling when Luke nods. “Okay... Pilot. _Prince_. Jedi…” She ticks them off on her fingers as she goes, and despite her tone, a smile twitches in the corner of her mouth. “Am I missing anything else?”

“I’m not a prince,” Luke clarifies again, embarrassment curling in his stomach despite himself. 

“Yeah, but the other stuff is true?” Cara presses, not only refilling her drink, but topping up Luke’s as well. Luke takes it as a token of goodwill. “I thought it was Rebellion propaganda: just a bunch of rumours to improve morale.” 

“It’s the truth,” Luke assures her, trying to toe the careful line of honesty without seeming like he’s boasting. “But I spent most of my time with the Rebellion flying. My work as a Jedi is… on my own, mostly.”

It comes out sounding much more lonely than Luke realizes, and he takes another bite of food rather than elaborate. 

“He’s to add Mandalorian to his list of titles as well,” the Armorer says, sounding almost coy as she gazes at Cara. “He’s training to be sworn to the Creed.”

Cara pauses, glancing at the Armorer beside her in disbelief, and Luke feels an odd tension that he can’t place down to one particular word as they stare wordlessly at each other. 

“With my hand fixed, I would like to start again,” Luke offers, trying to alleviate whatever strange air has settled between the two of them. “I kind of miss it, honestly.”

“Your hand is only half the issue,” the Armorer reminds, releasing Cara from her gaze to turn to Luke instead, “Until Vizsla swallows his pride and makes amends, you have no teacher.” 

“I can do it.”

The Mand’alor barely looks up when he speaks, though all three of his dining companions certainly stare at him. His focus stays entirely on the Child beside him, who hungrily takes everything offered to him, one small hand gripped to his father’s wrist.

“I’ve been tied up in politics, policies, delegating tasks,” he continues. “Neglecting my own skills. It’d do me good.” 

Luke feels… well, abruptly he very much feels put on the spot, even though everyone is staring at the Mand’alor, rather than at him. “I’d be honoured,” Luke tells him for the second time today, his voice soft and very much sincere.

The Mand’alor raises his head then, and their gazes meet… but they aren’t given any time to linger on it. Before he can answer, two masked Mandalorians approach the table, requiring the Mand’alor and Armorer alike, for some reason that Luke and Cara clearly aren’t privy to. 

“Would you watch him?” the Mand’alor asks, passing the Child into Luke’s arms when he nods his consent. “Excuse us.” 

The Armorer moves to follow, rising to her feet, but she pauses when Cara lighty catches her arm. Before she goes, she lets Cara pull her close, and once again their foreheads meet. 

“We won’t be long,” the Armorer assures, with a kindness in her voice that Luke has never heard before, and she takes her leave. 

Across from him, Cara hides a smirk behind the rim of her glass, drinking deeply, and Luke frowns to himself. He’s too lost in his own head: thinking about the odd, quiet way the Mand’alor’s been acting, simultaneously inviting Luke closer then not wanting to so much as look at him… then there’s the gesture from night they were alone together, that Cara emulates with clear significance. 

“What does that mean?” Luke asks abruptly, unable to help himself. Somehow, even though he’s barely gotten to know her, it’s easier to talk to Cara: another outsider to this culture, rather than someone who’s fiercely protective of it. He gestures to his own forehead with two fingers, feeling a little foolish as he does it. “You keep doing this. Why?”

Cara cocks her head to one side, one brow arching as she grins at him. “Are you really asking me why I’m kissing my wife?” she clarifies tauntingly, and the pit of Luke’s stomach drops. 

What?

“She doesn’t take the helmet off in front of anyone else, so I make do until we’re alone,” Cara explains simply, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly -- but her casual air vanishes when Luke keeps gawking at her. “What? What’s that face for?” 

Luke suddenly becomes very interested in looking at the baby instead. Colour raises to his cheeks, his head buzzing, and Luke swallows thickly. That’s why: that’s the reason the Mand’alor has been acting strange, why he’s seemed so careful in every gesture, and Luke has been entirely naive to it. 

He must think Luke is so _stupid_.

“You’re kidding me,” Cara laughs, resting her elbows on the table as she leans eagerly forward. “You’ve been here how long and someone’s already swooning over you, flyboy? Who kissed you? It’s someone from the old Creed, right? If they kept their helmet on...” 

“Let’s -- not talk about it,” Luke entreats, scooping the Child up more tightly against his chest, desperate for the distraction as the little one coos and reaches for Luke’s face. “It’s really not a big deal.” 

It does absolutely nothing to dissuade her. Cara looks at him, and her eyes narrow -- scrutinizing -- before she glances at the empty chair next to Luke, realization dawning visibly over her face. 

“You can’t be serious,” she utters thickly, her expression too mystified for Luke to pretend she doesn’t know. 

“... please don’t tell him,” Luke entreats helplessly. “I -- didn’t realize.” 

Sitting heavily back in her seat, Cara huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “I leave this rock for what? A couple months, and everything changes?” Cara muses, rolling her eyes before her gaze settles on Luke, watching him as if she’s trying to figure him out. “I didn’t think I’d see the day.”

Luke almost doesn’t hear her. Instead, he shamefully gulps down his drink, as if it’ll cool off the heat building under his skin. He’s barely given any time to recover his composure before the Mand’alor and the Armorer return to their table, and Luke straightens up almost too expectantly. 

“Everything okay?” he asks, and the Mand’alor hums, glancing back from where they came.

“It’s fine,” the Mand’alor says vaguely, which altogether isn’t very convincing. The Armorer returns to her seat, where Cara stretches one strong arm around the back of her chair, but the Mand’alor stays standing, tensely hovering before he speaks again. 

“It’s late.” He turns to Luke when he says it, his posture stiff. “Can I walk you home?” 

Oh. Luke blinks, doing nothing more than staring at him for several seconds, before a smile breaks out over his face. He doesn’t dare glance at Cara across from him, although he can guess at her expression.

“I’d be honoured, Mand’alor,” he repeats for the third time, purposefully overdramatic this time, and the huff of laughter that echoes from the Mand’alor’s helmet feels like a prize.

\--

“The two of them,” Luke starts casually, jerking his head back towards the dining hall that they leave behind. They’ve barely made it out the door, but he has to start some sort of conversation before something foolish falls out of his mouth instead. His mind races and if he’s not careful, there’s too much risk of some impulsive thought jumping to his lips. “Have they been together long?”

Which, he realizes, isn’t actually any less foolish. The second it leaves his mouth, regret coils in his stomach, and he wonders how ridiculous he sounds.

To his relief, the Mand’alor simply nods his head. “Maybe not by your standards,” he replies indecipherably. “They met on Nevarro. The Tribe had a covert there before all of this, and Cara works with the Hunters guild now. When we relocated here, she followed. Got married sometime before that.” 

With what little he knows based off of rumours and stories, Luke tries to quickly piece together a timeline, if only because it gives him a better sense of the Mand’alor himself and his connections to his tribe. To these people he obviously holds dear. The scope Luke lands on -- from Nevarro to now -- isn’t entirely clear, but it’s probably close enough, and the surprise must show on his face.

As if sensing the unspoken question, the Mand’alor continues. “It probably seems fast to an outsider,” he says. “But it’s different for us.”

There’s a tentative pause that comes over him, and when he speaks, he’s clearly choosing his words carefully. 

“Mandalorians are warriors, and we recognize the danger involved in our path,” he explains carefully, the grim implication needing no further elaboration. “There’s no point in wasting time when you know what you want -- and the two of them knew what they wanted. They found their Clan.”

The Mand’alor speaks like Luke might judge him, but honestly Luke doesn’t feel one shred of scrutiny. The galaxy around them has been so full of torment, war and risk… and why bother holding back? Despite their reputation as feared fighters, the community he’s seen here has been nothing but loving and tightly knit. These people place so much importance on family, that Luke can’t imagine any of them entering into a union like that under any other pretense but the commitment to care for another person.

There’s a joyful sort of freedom in that; to know what or who you want, and to act on it unabashedly. 

Luke actually takes the thought with a certain sort of melancholy. His whole life has moved from one responsibility to the next, one destiny to another, one more fatal quest or mission… When was the last time he made one purely selfish decision, out of his own individual desire? When has he ever looked to his own heart and its wants? He doesn’t even feel like he’s even been given the chance to consider it. 

Luke lets that linger for a moment. Glancing down at the Child in his arms, he remembers the Mand’alor’s words from before: the mudhorn on his shoulder and their clan of two... The implication settles in, and Luke has to wonder...

The Child sleeps comfortably in Luke’s arms while they walk together. Apart from the occasional idle squirm, and a little whistle that barely counts as a snore, he’s utterly lost to the world. Luke watches him with a smile as his mind works, because it’s a safer outlet than looking at the Mand’alor, who walks close enough that their arms nearly brush.

When Luke does finally risk a glance at him, it’s hard to stop. The skies on Mandalore are strikingly clear at night, the light of the moon and the stars above casting down without anything in between to lessen their gleam. The effect sets the whole world around them with an unhindered illumination, and the shine of the Mand’alor’s armor glints like nothing Luke has ever seen before. He’s--

He’s handsome. That thought pushes onto the forefront of Luke’s mind, odd and paradoxical. Somehow, despite the stubborn barrier of his helmet, Luke looks at Din and it’s all that he can think. Saying that out loud would feel too foolish, but Luke means it with utter sincerity, and he isn’t sure he’s ever felt that strongly about anyone else he’s ever met.

He isn’t sure if this is pushing a boundary of disrespect, but Luke can’t help asking.

“How long have you worn your helmet for?” he asks softly, his voice somber. Even if he already knows the answer, he wants to hear it spoken. 

Without giving a reply, the Mand’alor glances up at the sky above them, and he seems to sigh. Abruptly, so sharp it feels like a blow to the base of his skull: Luke thinks about Vader. He thinks of the mask, of the sculpted barrier that separated him from everything around him. His father’s last request echoes in his ears, so drenched in longing, and it twists miserably in Luke’s chest. 

“How long has it been since someone’s looked you in the eyes?” 

The Mand’alor gives nothing but a condemning silence, and Luke weakens as they walk the last few paces to his house together. “You never show your face to anyone,” Luke affirms slowly, “Do you?” 

“Just him,” the Mand’alor replies, nodding to the baby tucked warmly against Luke’s chest. Shoulders sinking, Luke looks back at him with a certain helplessness. 

“But he’s just a child,” he says quietly, thoughtlessly. 

“He’s my family,” the Mand’alor reiterates firmly, and Luke realizes that he should watch his tongue. Still, there’s an ache that permeates the air, and Luke can sense it like it’s his own feeling, his own conflicted longing. 

“I don’t mean to disrespect you,” Luke says quickly, wetting his lips. “I just…” 

_It just seems so lonely._

As much as he wants to, Luke doesn’t say that. It’s not his place, and he’s already pushed himself too close towards insulting something the Mand’alor holds so dear. They’ve reached his house anyways, and the thought of leaving him on a bad note is too much to bear.

Instead he sighs, gazing up at him almost entreatingly as they linger at his door.

“This is the Way?” Luke offers, like a balm for his previous words, trying to smile in the corner of his mouth.

“This is the Way,” the Mand’alor repeats, much more quietly than Luke expects. 

Nodding, Luke draws a deep, steadying breath. At least he isn’t angry, which clearly should count for something. Bundling the Child up, Luke hands him back to his father, who accepts without hesitation. 

“Thank you for walking me home, Mand’alor,” Luke says sincerely. 

“Din,” the Mand’alor corrects, so immediately that it startles him. “You can call me Din.”

Luke pauses, taking in the sight of him: his voice soft and his armour reflecting starlight… and he smiles at him. 

“Thank you, Din,” Luke repeats obligingly, and he feels--

He feels--

“Good night,” Din says shortly, hesitating for just a split second before he takes his leave: turning back the way he came with his cloak billowing behind him. 

Luke watches him go, his heartbeat abruptly rattling against his ribs -- infected by a sharp, sudden swell of emotion that he recognizes as distinctly not his own.

With a stab of regret, Luke realizes that he lost the opportunity to kiss him.

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luke listens, almost too intently focused on every word. Din is right behind him, sturdy at his back, and he speaks directly into Luke’s ear as he lines him up towards his target. “Just like that,” Din instructs, his voice low and reassuring, the metallic edge of it familiar by now, and Luke’s very aware of how long he’s been holding his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a Valentine's specific update, however I'm going to be spending the day out with my lovely wife (who edits this whole fic into a much more coherent piece of work, fyi) and therefore not able to post, so this is going up a little early. Also you'll notice me bumping the chapter count up simply because I needed rethink the size of my chapters from my outlines.
> 
> The book Luke has in this chapter is real! It's called 'The Jedi Path: a Manual for Students of the Force' -- which contains lots of cute character commentary along with very worrying Jedi rules. 
> 
> The rating officially goes up in this chapter, as a forewarning. Happy (early) Valentine's!

When the time comes to train one-on-one with Din, Luke almost wonders if he would prefer Vizsla.

It’s mostly a joke (one he wisely keeps in his own head), but there’s an entirely separate level of intimidation that bleeds in. Vizsla, after all, was nothing if not upfront about his feelings, and Luke never had to wonder about his motivations. With Din… Luke still isn’t sure where they stand, or what this means. Luke certainly made a mess of things, even if it hadn’t been on purpose. If he had known what Din’s actions meant from the start, he would’ve…

He would’ve _what?_ Luke isn’t even confidently sure, and the notion persistently lurks on the back of his mind and twists anxiously in the pit of his stomach. As much as he tries to decipher it all practically, it quickly falls apart when he examines it too closely. Din wouldn’t have invited him to dinner if he disliked Luke, nor would he have walked him home or offered to see him daily for training. So, naturally, the conclusion is that Din… 

It’s as if Luke’s mind fills with white noise rather than ever look at it directly. He feels like he’s being foolish to even consider it. Frankly, the simple truth is that Luke isn’t used to being wanted by anyone -- and likewise, since joining the rebellion all those years ago, he’s not used to _wanting_ so purely for himself.

It feels inherently selfish. He didn’t come here to indulge some misplaced fantasy; he came here as a Jedi to preserve the teachings of the force. He’s getting distracted: letting his head back into the clouds; looking at Din in the same wistful way he had stared out at twin suns.

Focus. 

The training gym is Vizsla’s domain for the majority of the day, so they don’t meet back within its walls until late in the evening. Everyone else has long since cleared out, giving them the entire space to themselves, and Luke can’t decide if it’s better or worse that they’ll be entirely left alone. As he walks out of the changing area, it strikes him that he’s only been _completely_ alone with Din a mere handful of times. When they aren’t surrounded by other students, or tribesfolk, the Child is at least around to keep Luke from lingering too boldly on his father. 

The realization twists in his stomach, and Luke can’t confidently name the feeling as nerves or anticipation.

Another realization settles on him as Din notices his presence and raises his head: Luke had assumed Din would dress down for this. He doesn’t, his armour is as crisp as ever, and Luke feels slightly ashamed of his rather artless appearance in comparison. His training attire consists of a worn, grey top and pants that have endured several terrible climates, and it shows. If it bothers Din, he makes no mention of it -- maybe he appreciates Luke’s practicality.

“Ready?” Din asks as he approaches, and Luke grins. 

Hearing Din’s voice settles the internal debate: the feeling is anticipation.

“Would it matter if I said no?” he counters, stretching his arms out wide and rolling his neck in preparation.

It’s all very ordinary to start. Din takes him through rounds, assessing Luke’s competency as they go, and Luke figures he doesn’t fare half bad -- he’s simply lacking refinement. It helps that Din doesn’t spend the entire time determined to make him hit the floor, unlike his predecessor. Not to say he goes easy on him -- Luke certainly works up a sweat -- but Din isn’t hounding him on every slip he makes, and he makes his criticisms known in a way that Luke can actually learn from. 

“You’re not fighting like your life depends on it,” he observes.

“Should I be?” Luke asks with a laugh, though the humour fizzles out when he realizes Din is actually quite serious. 

Stepping away from him, Din moves to collect a pair of quarterstaffs. Luke catches one easily as it’s tossed to him, and Din approaches with a thoughtful declaration.

“I want you to use your powers.”

Luke is almost certain he mishears him. He looks Din up and down as if he could read a joke in his posture, and his question is cautious: “You mean that?”

“It’s getting in the way,” Din reasons simply, his voice clear and direct. “It probably takes more of your focus to _not_ use them, right? Deliberately ignoring what your instinct tells you?” 

Yes, actually. Luke just never wanted to seem like he was making excuses for himself. 

Din steps up in front of him, his chin raised as he regards him. “I want to see what you can really do.”

A huge grin breaks across his features before he can stop it, and excitement thrums through him. Luke spins the quarterstaff in his hand, steps forward, and for the first time in all his training here, he finally lets himself _feel--_

The shift in the air is obvious as soon as they start back up. To start, Din uses the same measured, purposeful steps and maneuvers he did before, walking through a routine -- only to quickly realize that his careful pace is abruptly about to become insufficient. He falters, needing to move in one swift, sharp movement to stop Luke from knocking him hard in the ribs. Even with the helmet, his shock is tangible, and Luke smirks at him as he pushes relentlessly forward. 

With renewed, sincere effort, Din actually spars with him. He abandons all routine for reactionary, inspired impulse, and Luke lets the feeling of it vibrate through him along with his own racing pulse. To his credit, Din isn’t easy to predict -- but neither is Luke, and their match ends with Din’s back hitting the padded mats beneath them. Poised above him, Luke holds him there by imaginary threat: the staff tucked under the crook of his helmet. Short of breath and clearly awed, Din just stays like that, staring up at him unflinchingly. 

“That’s new,” he announces, his voice a little breathless but his tone as flat as it ever is, and Luke can’t help but laugh.

“If you really want to see me fight, you should give me my lightsaber back,” Luke challenges, emboldened by the reminder of what he’s truly capable of -- and, selfishly, wanting _Din_ to see him that way.

Once he says it, though, the full implication settles in: if Luke were to be given his weapon back, then surely Din would be wielding the Darksaber in return. A real spar, with both of them at their full potential...

“Seems a little risky for day one,” Din replies, pushing himself up on his elbows -- and Luke quickly offers out a hand, pulling him up the rest of the way. Luke keeps his grin in the corner of his mouth, bouncing on his toes, and he squeezes Din’s hand with deliberate purpose before he releases him again. 

Fair, he supposes. But Din didn’t say _never._

\--

The longer his lessons go on, and the more at home the tribe here makes him feel, something begins to weigh on Luke. For all his eagerness to drink in their culture and share in their ways, for his own part, he’s been holding something back. Din’s words from weeks ago keep ringing in his ears: words about treating these people -- treating Din _himself_ \-- like an enemy. Luke isn’t ignorant enough not to see the hypocrisy, and it doesn’t take long for him to make up his mind.

The next time he meets Din and his son, he brings something with him: a worn but sturdy book that serves as Luke’s only connection to the vast history resting on his shoulders. 

“What’s this?” Din asks, pulling the book closer across the table as Luke offers it. 

“It’s all that remains of the Jedi,” Luke tells him honestly, then he shrugs as he takes his seat. “That I’ve found so far, anyway. After word got out that the Emperor was killed, all sorts of things started to turn up on the black market. Scavengers going through Imperial compounds, or finding their way into his personal sanctuaries. I’m very lucky to have this back, all things considered.”

Din probably doesn’t need that part explained to him; Luke forgets that if the stories are to be believed, he’s likely more familiar with those kind of underground dealings that Luke himself. Bounty hunters and smugglers tend to run in similar circles, after all. Despite himself, Luke catches himself watching the smooth lines of his helmet, wondering about the life he must have led before fate ran its course and he picked up the Darksaber.

Shaking his head, he brings himself back to center.

“From what I gather, my training shouldn’t have been considered complete,” Luke admits, just a little self consciously as Din begins to skim through the pages, gloved fingers moving the pages with obvious care. “Ben and Yoda worked with what little time they had… but it was mostly practical training, preparing me to go up against my father. Neither of them lived long enough to pass on any real teachings about the Jedi way other than what they thought was desperately necessary, and this book is the only other key I’ve found.”

If they had lived longer -- if times had been different, and the circumstances less dire, would Luke have accepted the lessons for what they were? His study of the book has left him with doubts, and as Din offers him no reply, those concerns creep back in with force.

“I… have my own misgivings about the texts,” he admits honestly, folding his hands on the table in front of him, his thumbs pressed together. His lips twitch down at the corner, and he watches Din carefully. “That’s why I didn’t show you right away. I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea of me.”

With some of the writings listed, Luke has to say that the Mandalorians’ distrust of the Jedi is certainly not unfounded. There’s explicit detail about attachments -- or rather the deliberate lack thereof -- and Luke always finds himself turning away from those pages with a distinct finality in every gesture. 

For all his spitfire when Din had raised his judgements before, deep down, Luke knows he was right. This was the Jedi way: taking children from their families, denying them the right to love, and outcasting those who would disobey. That was the sort of cold disconnect that Ben wanted Luke to emulate, but in his heart Luke _knows_ he had been wrong to ask it of him. If Luke had listened to him, and scorned his father, then where would they be? Luke would have surely fallen to the Emperor, and then the Rebellion would followed shortly after.

The Child, obviously bored with his father’s quiet focus on the book on the table, has toddled his way over to Luke’s seat instead. His hands outstretched, he coos requestingly, and Luke can’t help that the frown melts from his mouth. 

“Lucky for all of us, I get to make my own rules,” Luke tells the little one, gently scooping him up to sit him on his lap. He bounces the Child on his knee, distracting himself from the possibility of Din’s judgement by turning his attention on the baby instead. “I’m the last Jedi left, so there’s no one to tell me otherwise.”

As he flips through the pages, Din makes no commentary. There’s a few sections he lingers on, and others he flips past with barely a glance. Luke wonders if it was still too soon to show him this, but he holds his tongue, and at last Din speaks. 

“That’s what you’re going to do?” Din affirms, not looking up from the book. “Make your own order?” 

“If I get the chance,” Luke answers honestly. “But some of the rules listed there… I can’t ask that of anyone. I don’t intend to make the same mistakes my masters did.” 

Luke knows, inherently, that he should try his best to honour the history that’s been handed to him, but at the same time… what part of that isolation benefits a person? It seems so hypocritical -- to rely so much on intuition, on pure feeling, but to scorn the connections that would nurture those skills. Yoda himself had spoken of the Force as something that united all living things… yet to Luke it seems like the old masters failed to see that unity as a strength to be encouraged.

Then, in stark contrast to everything he’s supposed to emulate, Luke thinks of the Mandalorians: the power they have in their numbers, the protective intimacy they have among their tribes. He would never dare call that sort of kinship a _weakness_.

Luke feels a flicker in his chest, and his gaze is drawn back to the armored man across the table. That old rivalry seems so strange to him now… 

“I feel like,” Luke starts tentatively, “The Jedi could’ve learned a lot from the Mandalorians.” 

To his surprise, Din scoffs. Of all the answers he anticipated, that didn’t make the list, and Luke narrows his eyes as Din cocks his head at him. “I’m serious,” he insists defensively. “I mean it!” 

“You’re just telling me what I already know,” Din points out coolly, and Luke supposes he should’ve guessed that Din would just take the confession as a boost to his ego. Sitting back in his chair, Luke rolls his eyes. 

“Feuds aside,” Luke continues stubbornly, nodding to the city around them. “Look at how your people live together, how they thrive off the community. How you take in children as your own. There’s no reason the Jedi shouldn’t have been the same way. That’s what I want the new order to be like. Not this...” Luke gestures to the book disparagingly. “Cold, awful detachment from the universe around us. People can’t live that way.” 

They could change history: the Jedi path could benefit from the Mandalorian Creed -- and vice versa. There’s so much they can learn from one another; so much time wasted on hate. 

For a long moment, Din just looks at him from across the table, steady and difficult to read. Luke watches him back, and his shoulders stiffen defensively. 

“You think I’m being silly,” he accuses flatly.

“No, I don’t,” Din clarifies immediately, shaking his head. 

“You _do_ ,” Luke insists, “You think all of this should go without saying.”

“It should,” Din agrees, tilting his head in a way that Luke has come to associate with a smile. “But that doesn’t make it insignificant.”

Din flips the book shut, his gloved fingertips tracing the emblem on its cover. He seems thoughtful, and Luke stays quiet for once, waiting as Din heaves a breath.

“You’re different than I thought you’d be,” Din admits at length, his voice soft as he studies the leather under his fingers. Luke feels the tension bleed out of his posture, relief mingling in with a quiet sort of pride -- Din doesn’t say it like it’s a bad thing, after all.

“So are you,” Luke replies, smiling at him, and Din’s head snaps up more quickly than Luke expects. 

“How?” he asks, and Luke finds himself taken off guard by the soft urgency in his voice, abruptly uncertain of his answer when put on the spot. 

Shrugging a little, Luke keeps his smile. “I don’t know,” he says tentatively. “Just not what I was expecting. Much less scary than the stories. Honourable.”

Once he’s started to speak, Luke finds that there’s more he can say about him than he realized, as if his mind has been working Din over without even deliberately meaning to.

“I don’t think you’ve ever lied to me,” he continues. “I appreciate that. It’s steadying. You’re very noble.” Luke thinks on it for a moment, giving the Child an idle bounce against his chest. “And you’re very kind.” 

Din doesn’t answer aside from a quiet hum, the tone indecipherable, and he drums his fingers on the cover of the book. There’s a distinct restlessness in the gesture, and Luke can’t help a swell of endearment that floods his chest.

“Don’t worry,” Luke promises playfully. “I won’t tell anyone.” 

\--

The next time they meet, Din takes him outside around the back of the training gym instead, where he’s lined up a row of targets at varying distances from where they stand. Once he realizes what this means, Luke grins -- and his reaction isn’t lost on Din, who tilts his helmet in his direction. 

“You seem excited,” he observes curiously.

“I’m a good shot,” he boasts, unable to help the edge of pride that enters his voice.

“I wouldn’t have guessed that,” Din muses, and it catches Luke by surprise -- but Luke supposes he has a point: the Jedi are known as swordsmen, and peacekeepers, so being handy with a blaster doesn’t really fit the bill.

More specifically, though, Luke wonders at the image of himself that Din has built in his own head.

“I grew up on Tatoonie,” he tells him, approaching the wide array of munitions Din has spread out waiting for him and selecting a blaster. “You ever been?” Din hums affirmatively, and Luke smirks at him. “Then you know there’s nothing to do there but race speeders and shoot womp rats.” 

“That your way of bragging that you’re good at racing too?” Din asks dryly. 

“If you’re asking, sure,” Luke answers, shooting him another wild grin, and he lines himself up in front of the targets. 

While Din has plenty of comments to make about his hand-to-hand, he can’t say much for Luke’s ability to shoot. As he follows down the line, Luke takes out every single target without faltering -- and it comes with a little flare of to his ego: something he so rarely gets the chance to indulge here.

Ben would probably scold him for that attitude, but Luke can’t help himself.

“How’s that?” he asks rhetorically, as Din merely looks at him, persistently hard to read beneath the helmet. 

Din doesn’t seem content to let Luke feel too cocky for too long. Stepping close, he plucks the blaster from his grip and trades it out, handing him a rifle that seems nearly as tall as Luke is instead. It’s heavy, awkward in his hold, and Luke frowns as he runs his hands along it. 

“It’s an Amban sniper rifle,” Din remarks as he watches Luke examine it. “On top of your usual blaster fire, you’ve got an electrical current, and vaporizing shots.”

Speaking of things Jedi would disapprove of... Luke winces a little. “I’m not sure I’m capable of vaporizing anybody,” he admits honestly. 

“Seems cleaner than a lightsaber to the neck,” Din argues coolly. “Or some of those other methods listed in that Jedi book of yours.”

“Point taken,” Luke mutters in an undertone, though he’s still not keen on the idea. Even so, this is just training at least, and the chances of him being handed a weapon like this in actual combat is probably very slim. 

In retrospect, Luke hasn’t had the most experience as a sniper. It’s different than shooting long range from a ship, and he feels oddly too aware of how he holds the rifle against himself. He’s not steadying it properly, somehow, not used to the length of it coupled with its unexpected weight. 

Luke isn’t given much time to puzzle it out before Din approaches him. “Here,” he says, stepping up behind him and placing his hands on Luke’s shoulders. He starts there, pushing with his palms until Luke lets the tension go, then sliding down to his elbows and squeezing. 

“You’re locking yourself up,” he notes, not chiding but merely observing. “That just makes you less balanced. Relax.” Then, his hand covers over Luke’s, guiding him further back to brace the rifle properly. “This is too low. You need it here or you’ll never steady your shot.” 

Luke listens, almost too intently focused on every word. Din is right behind him, sturdy at his back, and he speaks directly into Luke’s ear as he lines him up towards his target. “Just like that,” Din instructs, his voice low and reassuring, the metallic edge of it familiar by now, and Luke’s very aware of how long he’s been holding his breath.

He’s so close, touching him so deliberately, and Luke finds it almost _too_ easy to relax under his quiet coaxing. 

“Be sure to watch for--” Din starts, but Luke is already squeezing on the trigger, and the kickback shocks through his shoulders, knocking him back against Din’s chest. Without faltering, Din catches him by his arms, steadying him as Luke gives a startled gasp of laughter.

“...the recoil,” Din finishes lamely. 

“I hit it!” Luke declares triumphantly, and Din hums approvingly behind him. 

Din lets go when he’s sure Luke has found his balance, but not before one gloved hand squeezes warmly around Luke’s elbow, lingering briefly before he steps back. 

By the end of the day, Luke can still feel the touch through the fabric of his shirt.

\--

It continues on like that, alternating swordplay, shooting, and hand-to-hand. It’s the latter today, which Luke has taken on with a significant improvement now that he’s allowed no limitations. 

“Good,” Din praises when they separate, and Luke feels naive for how much a simple word sends heat curling through him. “But you’re going to have to rethink your technique later.” 

Blinking, Luke straightens up. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You’re relying completely on your speed,” Din observes, gesturing up and down Luke’s frame. “But you’re not wearing armor yet, and you’re going to have to as part of the _Resol’nare._ When you do, it’ll be a rude awakening -- you won’t be used to the weight.” 

Din has a point, but Luke frowns. “I don’t usually wear armor,” he explains redundantly. “It slows me down.” 

“It’s either be slow or be dead,” Din states bluntly, and Luke regards him steadily.

“I’ve lasted this long, haven’t I?”

For a moment, Din simply watches him, seeming deep in thought. Maybe, behind the impassive shield of his helmet, he’s trying to calculate how an entire legion of Jedi knights managed to survive in the galaxy without so much as a breastplate over their hearts -- but he certainly doesn’t ask Luke to clarify. After a moment, he nods his head.

“Okay,” he states simply.

That’s all the warning he gives before he charges. Even caught off guard, Luke manages to evade him initially -- but not forever. Din catches his good wrist, twisting his arm behind his back, and as Luke winces, Din’s free hand flicks against his temple. 

“Dead,” he declares, as if his fingers were a shot from the barrel of a blaster. “See how long you lasted?” 

Breathlessly, Luke laughs, and he nods slowly. All right. That’s how it’s going to be then, is it?

Breaking himself free from Din’s grip, they start again. Now that he knows he’s coming, Luke is quicker on his feet. He moves with him, not only ducking and dodging but returning blows in kind -- but the fight still ends with Din flicking his fingers between Luke’s eyes.

“Dead,” he repeats. 

It keeps on like that. A flick against his jugular: dead. Between the delicate spot where his ribs meet: dead. Right above his heart: dead. Luke holds his own, and actually manages to get the upper hand more than once, but their scraps keep ending up the same way. Din’s fingers snap against his skin as he utters over and over: dead, dead, dead--

“All right!” Luke announces, laughing helplessly as he finally gets the better of him. Using his momentum, he catches Din around his middle and forces him to the floor: pinning his wrists under his hands before he can manage to flick him again. “All right, I get it! Enough!” 

Then, underneath him, Din laughs too. 

The sound of it is almost enough to break Luke’s focus entirely. His laughter vibrates through metallic echo of his helmet, so soft and utterly sincere, and he’s--

He’s been so patient, opening up to him little by little, looking out for him in ways Luke probably doesn’t even realize. The air seems to swell around them, and Luke can’t hope to untangle his own feelings from what radiates off of Din underneath him, but it feels _good_ , prickling at the back of his neck, and Luke… 

Luke can’t help himself. 

Letting go of Din’s wrists, Luke cups the sides of his helmet instead, and before he can make himself think better of it, he bends forward: pushing his forehead tight to Din’s with firm, unyielding pressure. Then, just to ensure his intention is not at all misread, to make sure Din _knows_ he understands: Luke presses his lips to the dark, smooth panel of his visor on some terrible impulse that he can’t bring himself to smother. 

Beneath him, Din’s entire body shudders, tensed like a taut wire, and his hands snap up to bury tight into Luke’s hair and twist-- not enough to be truly painful, but the heady need implied makes Luke’s heart hammer. 

Emboldened enough to push past feeling foolish, Luke kisses him again. It starts as a slow, measured action, then as he proceeds, a certain frenzy edges into him: another press to his visor, then his brow, followed by the sloping curve of one cheek, then the other-- and from behind the confines of his helmet, Din lets out an unsteady groan that sounds like desperation.

His hands move in Luke’s hair, cupping his face and pushing him back. At first, Luke’s chest twists, expecting rejection, but the reality settles in for what it is: Din simply wants to look at him. His thumb traces Luke’s cheek, while his other hand sweeps his sweat-damp hair back away from his brow. He holds Luke there for a moment, as if taking in the sight of him, and Luke doubts he’s much to look at: breathless, flushed and edged with sweat as he sits astride Din’s hips. 

With a tremble lingering in his fingers, Din moves his hands. Palms flat, he slides them down either side of Luke’s neck, sweeping down to his shoulders before following the narrow dip of his collarbone back to center. Luke’s breathing catches when Din maps out his chest with his hands, his heart rattling against his ribs when he reaches the edge of Luke’s shirt and slides beneath it. 

“Oh--” Luke utters uselessly, before he can think to bite down on it. 

Din hums in response, the worn leather of his gloves soft and warm against Luke’s skin. For several seconds, Luke feels like his chest might burst; it rises and falls rapidly under Din’s exploring hands. He loses his voice to a sharp, drawn out sound when Din’s thumb brushes a nipple, then, seemingly on an indulgent impulse of his own -- gently pinches down. 

Positioned as they are, Luke knows every reaction he makes is explicitly obvious, just as clearly as he can feel Din’s answering erection underneath him. In a clearer state of mind, Luke would know better, but in this instant he rolls his hips back, grinding down against him with a certain sort of shamelessness. This time, at least, he’s smart enough to catch his lip beneath his teeth to muffle the volume of his moan. 

Din says something -- some word Luke has never heard the translation for, which makes him wager it’s unfit for polite company. The gravelly sound of his voice says enough, and his hands scramble, fumbling before they find each other: letting go of Luke in order to rip away his gloves.

Once he sees them, Luke can’t think about anything else but Din’s hands: strong, weathered and reaching for him now. He touches Luke’s face, palm cupping his cheek and his thumb fitting in the dip above his chin. He’s _warm_ : that’s the stubborn detail that presses to the forefront of Luke’s mind as he leans into it. He’s warm and he’s softer than Luke anticipates, leather lingering as a taste on his skin when he traces Luke’s open mouth with his thumb. 

Distantly, Luke wonders if a part of his better sense has shorted out. Adrenaline and sheer, pent-up _want_ reach a peak and Luke can’t think of holding back. He doesn’t even think twice about it as he catches Din’s wrist in his hand, keeping him firmly where he is as he closes his lips around his thumb and sucks. 

From the depths of his helmet, Din gives a strangled sound that echoes like an ache. His free hand buries tight in Luke’s hair, pulling him in closer as his knuckle bends. It’s tentative at first, as if unsure of what he’s allowed, but he quickly catches on, pressing down against Luke’s bottom lip. Soon he’s dragging his thumb in and out of Luke’s mouth, a steady few strokes. Luke hums affirmatively, unable to do much else with his mouth full, and Din’s fingers twitch uselessly against his cheek.

“You’re killing me,” Din manages hoarsely, sounding torn halfway between a plea and an accusation. His thumb slides wetly over Luke’s tongue, tracing the edges of his teeth, and Luke thinks he must be staring. “ _Luke_.”

Unable to help himself, Luke draws Din’s hand away, and he laughs. It isn’t mocking, and it’s in no way cruel, but rather from some delirious, overjoyed flutter that fills his chest. He’s so, so happy and he can’t believe it’s taken him this long to realize it. Guiding Din’s palm over his chest, he lets him feel the rapid, wild hammering of his heart. 

“Can I do it?” he asks hazily, fumbling as he moves. In his riled, near frantic state, he’s only half aware that he’s not entirely making sense. “Will you let me?” Touching seems to be an easier way to make himself known, but he’s also not aware of what boundaries he’s allowed to cross. Shifting backward, Luke leaves Din’s lap, climbing lower down his body so he can grasp at Din’s belt. 

“Din, can I --?” he asks again, tugging for added emphasis. Somehow, even with the boldness of his actions, the idea of saying it out loud with any more explicit phrasing seems too exposed. Abruptly, the desire has settled into his bones with an ache that pounds at the base of his skull, and he isn’t sure he’s ever wanted anything as much as he’s wanted this. 

Cursing under his breath, Din rolls his head as he gazes down at him, both hands moving to grip tight on Luke’s shoulders. There’s some relief that Din’s hands are shaking too, and the fact that he holds him close instead of pushing him away is more than enough permission for Luke to continue. Luke fumbles with the clasp of his belt and works it open, reaching under the layers of his clothes to free his cock. 

Exhaling shakily at the sight of him, Luke curls his hand around the base and squeezes. He’s hard in his hand, hot and already edged with precum that Luke smears with a swipe of his thumb. The noise Din makes in response is ragged, both strained and desperate, and his hips jerk up into his touch with obvious abandon. Emboldened, Luke gives a slow, full stroke up the sizable length of him, following the slight, steady curve of it, and he shivers as Din chokes on his exhale. 

“I’ve wanted to do this,” Luke confesses quietly, wanting that fact known before his mouth is too preoccupied to admit to it. “For – a long time now.” 

That’s all the warning he gives before he leans in, sliding his tongue up from base to tip. Beneath him, Din gives a breathless, unsteady sound, and blunt nails press into Luke’s shoulders as he parts his lips and takes him inside. As the weight of him presses on his tongue, Luke’s stomach twists pleasantly, and he can’t help wondering who was the last person to touch Din like this. _Was_ there anyone else? How long has it been? It’s certainly been too long for Luke. 

The thought creeps in with an embarrassing edge, his own meager amount of experience threatening to betray him, but he wants this too much to think of stopping. Sheer, dizzying want overwhelms any thought of holding back. He goes slow: both for his own sake and out of the indulgent desire to draw things out. Gradually, he takes him deeper and deeper, steadying the base of Din’s cock with his hand as he sinks onto him. 

From where Luke is settled between his legs, every movement and gesture Din makes is overwhelmingly clear. His entire body shudders: tensed with the obvious effort of holding back. His knees raise on either side of him, boots pressing into the padded floor to ground himself, and one bare hand moves to twist tight into Luke’s hair. 

At first, all Din does is hold him there, and the first real tug at Luke’s hair seems reactionary more than deliberate. More comfortable now, Luke swallows around him, and Din’s entire body jerks, his hand pulling with enough force to guide Luke up then back down the full length of his cock.

The grip isn’t harsh enough to hurt, but the strain of it prickles up Luke’s spine and only urges him on further. Luke’s eyes flutter shut and utters a quiet, shaking moan. Both wanting to make his approval explicitly clear, and also purely being very much indulgent, he nods his head: bobbing up and down. 

Din groans lowly, his voice weak, and he doesn’t take Luke’s invitation immediately. The first real, full movement of his hips is still slow and shallow, and he only risks it a second time after Luke hums in wanton approval. Gradually, at Luke’s encouragement, Din gives in: thrusting up into Luke’s waiting mouth with a break in his voice that sounds terribly like relief. 

“Luke,” Din manages thickly, gripping at his hair with both unsteady hands now. His breathing, short and ragged, picks up speed, and his voice strains with a warning that he can’t find the air to voice properly. “ _Luke._ ” 

Luke recognizes Din’s intent, but he doesn’t waver. Holding firm on Din’s hips, he stays where he is: taking him to the back of his throat and swallowing down when Din comes inside his mouth. 

The sound Din makes will live in Luke’s head for longer than he can measure. His voice breaks, low and trembling, and raises with a sharp gasp that dies into a hissing exhale: weak and overwhelmed. Luke stays like that for a moment, waiting for the peak of it to subside, letting Din groan and shudder before he pulls back with a wet sound. Swiping his thumb on the corners of his mouth, Luke laughs breathlessly, and his pulse rushes wildly in his ears. 

“Hi,” he greets stupidly. Din doesn’t answer right away, his whole body straining with shallow, shaky breaths, and Luke grins down at him. Reaching up, he raps his knuckles against the side of Din’s helmet like he’s requesting access. “Hello? Are you okay in there? You have to tell me if-- oh!” 

Luke’s back hits the padded floor, and Din is on top of him faster than Luke can coherently measure. Din looms over him, as if he’s just taking in the sight of him -- flushed and breathless and hard beneath him -- before he holds his hand up to Luke’s swollen lips.

“Spit,” he orders, and Luke wonders how troubling it is that he barely thinks before obeying. 

He spits into Din’s waiting palm, barely having time to brace himself before Din reaches down under the waistband of his pants and wraps his hand around his cock. Stuttering on a gasp, Luke reaches for him: his hands grasping shaky fistfuls of Din’s cloak as his hips jerk up towards his hand. 

Biting down on his lower lip, Luke carefully muffles himself. It only works halfway, given the embarrassing whine that slips out from between his teeth when Din rolls his thumb over the head of his cock. His hand -- bare, warm, weathered, his _skin_ on his skin, Luke’s mind stupidly recites -- works steadily up and down, matching the way Luke lifts his hips, and very keenly aware of what makes him shudder. 

Din’s free hand sweeps back through Luke’s sweat damp hair again, pushing it away from his face so he can look at him. Hazily, Luke stares up at him, too aware of what a mess he’s made of himself but past the point of caring. Reaching up, he traces the edge of Din’s helmet, as if it’s the line of his jaw, and Luke offers him a shaky smile. 

“Handsome,” Luke tells him breathlessly, fully aware of how ridiculous he sounds but unable to help himself. Above him, Din trembles and makes a sound that Luke can’t pin down to one emotion: almost like a scoff, but too affected to be mocking, too sincerely shuddering. 

Bending forward, Din touches their foreheads together again. When he speaks, his voice is strained, unsteady, but loud in Luke’s ears. “I can’t stop -- thinking about you,” he admits, the confession gritting out from behind his teeth. He almost sounds tormented by it, his helmet bumping against Luke’s cheek. “You’re too… _bright_.” 

Luke’s chest twists, agonizing affection and yearning swelling up in his throat, and he wraps both arms around Din’s shoulders, squeezing him down tight against himself. He wants to feel as much of him as he can, to get as close as physically possible, trying to make up for lost time… but there’s only so much he can do, given the unyielding barrier of the Beskar and the helmet that Luke could never ask him to remove.

It’s as if Din tries to make up for that absence with his hands. Luke trembles under his grip, shuddering as Din strokes him: the heat and the drag of his skin on his skin making Luke feel desperately close to losing his mind. Denied anything else, that one small piece of him feels like an entire world, and Luke thrusts up uselessly into Din’s fist. 

“Oh,” Luke manages uselessly, tucking his face into the crook of Din’s neck. He can feel the heat of him there, and the movement of his throat as he swallows. They’re separated by layers of fabric, but it gives him more than his armour would. “Din, please--”

Din answers with a few last long, slow strokes, a sweep of his thumb over the head, and Luke’s undone by it. Burying his cry into Din’s neck, he shakes apart underneath him. Heels skidding on the floor beneath them, Luke shakes wildly, laughter bubbling deliriously past his lips along with the shuddering sound of his moans. 

Din stays close to him, waiting for his trembling to settle out, and Luke’s whole chest moves with the effort of his laboured breathing. With what little air he has in his lungs, he can’t stop chuckling, and Din sweeps his good hand over his face, lingering at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you laughing at me?” he asks, breathless himself but clearly teasing, and Luke shakes his head from side to side. 

“No,” he insists, beaming up at him as he lifts both hands to frame his visor. “I’m just-- happy.”

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is it?” Leia asks coolly, arching her brow as she regards him. “Does it have something to do with how… out of maybe a thousand capable and loyal subjects, the Mand’alor left his only son with you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This a longer chapter, which hopefully is fun! 
> 
> Additionally, I'm over on tumblr as 'mudhorns' if anyone would like to say hello.

The next morning, Luke feels a significant absence when he wakes up alone in his own house. After cleaning themselves up, Din had walked him home, but politely declined Luke’s invitations for him to stay. Practically, he understands why: Din could either sleep unmasked in the comfort of his own home, or he could sleep stiffly in his armour with Luke. There was absolutely no question to it -- never mind the baby that Din would have waiting for him. 

Even though he knows better, some foolish part of him still feels the lack. With everything Din has given him, he shouldn’t feel so forlorn at such a small thing… but the significance stays. Naively, Luke wishes they indulged in the simple, inherent intimacy of falling asleep wrapped up together, the image of one another in the early morning light being the first thing that greeted them.

Instead, hair messed and clothes askew, Luke crawls out of the comfort of the covers with a significant amount of self-determination. He washes up, spending a bit too long looking at his own reflection when he’s done. He feels like he needs to reorient himself. He didn’t plan for this to happen -- then again, who does? Dragging his fingers back through his hair, he frowns a little and he thinks about Din.

Din, laughing underneath him, touching him, calling him _bright._

Shaking his head as if to clear it, Luke gets himself dressed. He actually isn’t scheduled for lessons today, and seeking out Din immediately seems too pressuring. He isn’t sure how long he’ll sleep, or try to draw out his time without the Beskar. So, Luke focuses on getting something to eat instead.

“Good morning, Artoo,” Luke greets as he finds him, unhooking him from his power source on his way to the kitchen. Artoo whistles as he wakes up, and Luke pats his side with a smile. 

During his time here, Luke’s palate still hasn’t adjusted to the Mandalorians’ love of spice -- so his diet has involved quite a lot of simpler things: bread, vegetables, and fruits. According to his classes, it’s taken a considerable effort to have the crops grow here again, and Luke has adopted his own little project from the idea. Every core or seed is deliberately stashed, never tossed, and when Luke has a moment, he buries them in the earth around his house and wills for them to grow. According to his readings, some Jedi used this skill with great success -- though Luke isn’t sure if he’s doing more than giving them an elaborate burial. 

Still, Luke makes the effort: purposefully setting pieces aside as he prepares some breakfast. He’s been too self conscious about the idea to tell Din, but he’d probably appreciate the sentiment at least. Maybe there’s a metaphor in that: trying to set roots down here on Mandalore. 

Smiling to himself, Luke drifts off in his own head-- and he’s not even working for maybe five minutes before Artoo squawks at him, undeniably mocking, and Luke pauses to cock his head at him. 

“What?” he asks in disbelief. “What’s so funny?” 

It’s only when he stops what he’s doing that he realizes: everything within arm’s reach around him has suddenly lost the effect of gravity, and hovers as if lifted by Luke’s own giddy daydreaming. 

“...All right,” he admits sheepishly, poking at an apple as it makes its orbit around him. “All right. I get your point.” 

A knock taps against his door, and Luke wills it open with a gesture of his hand. Ever since Din allowed him to use the Force during training, he’s been more comfortable allowing himself to be in tune with it. Not to say he’s showing off, but Luke also doesn’t deliberately hold himself back.

Especially when it’s Din and his son who step inside. Belatedly, Luke realizes he maybe should have put a stop to the floating display _before_ letting them in -- just out of politeness sakes -- but Din doesn’t seem to mind, and the baby is absolutely delighted. 

“Hi,” Luke greets, just a little awkwardly, feeling foolish but hopelessly endeared by just the sight of him, and Din visibly looks him up and down.

“Hi,” he replies. “Everything alright?” 

The Child toddles forward, giggling happily at Luke’s unintentional solar system of breakfast food, and Luke scoops him up. Clawed hands reach out, and Luke is sufficiently distracted by his early morning enthusiasm, bouncing him up on his shoulder before he turns back to his father.

“Yeah -- I’m alright,” Luke assures him quickly, offering a smile, but… 

But once he slows down, and lets himself feel it, Din’s mood is nowhere near as welcoming as Luke wants it to be. Instead, there’s a stiffness in his posture that matches the barely restrained unease that flows off him, and Luke’s smile falters.

“...Are _you_ alright?” he asks cautiously. With a wave of his hand, he wills everything back where it belongs, focusing on Din instead -- much to the Child’s disappointment. “What’s wrong?” 

In lieu of a response, Din heaves a sigh and he steps closer. To start, he just looks at the baby in Luke’s arms, one gloved finger stroking the length of his ear as he speaks. “I need to ask you a favour,” he starts tentatively, his voice low.

The significance isn’t lost on Luke. While teaching Din about the Force has certainly been an ordeal, it’s as much for Luke’s benefit and it is for Din and his son. Apart from that, Luke isn’t sure that Din has ever asked him specifically for anything. There’s an intimacy in that which Luke wants to take comfort in, but what Din says next spoils what little warmth flickers in Luke’s chest.

“I have to leave for awhile,” he admits at length, the words heavy and unwelcome, and there’s a gravity behind it that Luke distinctly dislikes. “I was hoping you could watch the little one while I’m away.”

“Awhile?” Luke repeats, eyes narrowing slightly. “How long is awhile?” 

“I don’t know,” Din answers honestly. He shakes his head, his visor still firmly on the baby in Luke’s arms, as if he’ll lose track of himself by looking at Luke directly. “There’s a covert that sent us a distress signal… They want to return to Mandalore but they’re in dangerous territory. They need help leaving the system, and I don’t feel right sending my people there while I stay behind.” 

It’s a noble cause, and the sentiment twists in Luke’s chest. If Din is willing to leave the Child behind, it surely means that they’ve exhausted all other options of recovery, and once again Luke is struck by a swell of _rightness_ in his chest, a powerful desire to belong to a community that cares so much for each other, that aligns so strongly with his own values.

Finally, Din raises his gaze, searching Luke’s face for some kind of a reaction, and while it seems brash, Luke means it when he speaks:

“Let me come too,” he offers. “I could help.”

“Out of the question,” Din says sternly and without hesitation. “It’s dangerous.” Luke’s mouth opens, but Din cuts him off before he speaks. “I can’t tell you where it is, but the New Republic is trying to settle the fighting there, and it’s made the system hostile.”

Shoulders stiffening, Luke persists. “That’s just all the more reason for me to come,” Luke argues stubbornly. “The Republic knows me, and I could--”

“No,” Din repeats firmly, and Luke tightens his jaw, holding his ground. 

“The Republic doesn’t have to seem so daunting,” Luke insists, just a little entreating. “I know Mandalore has enemies; if I explained things, they could help--”

“Mandalore doesn’t need anyone’s help,” he counters sharply, not giving Luke the chance to finish, and Luke feels the bite of his anger for the first time in weeks. 

Luke narrows his eyes, just slightly, and he tucks the Child closer to his chest in obvious significance. “But you’ve asked for mine,” he points out calmly.

Din watches him steadily, and Luke doesn’t waver, holding his chin high. “You can’t come,” Din reiterates firmly. “I need you to be sa--” 

Din cuts himself short, as if biting down on his sentiment before it can escape his lips. Hands clenching at his sides, he starts again. “I need you to look after him,” he confesses quietly, nodding to the Child in Luke’s arms. “If something happens to me, he’ll need--”

He seems to struggle in silence for a moment, and when he speaks again his words feel deliberately chosen, if only half honest about his insistence of Luke staying:

“You’re the only one who knows what he is.” 

Where he sits tucked against Luke’s chest, the Child’s ears droop, and Luke’s shoulders sink as well. He wants to argue -- or worse, he wants to be defiant. He wants to figure out their destination and follow in the X-Wing, permission granted or not… but the Child in his arms croons, reaching for his face, and Din’s dread over his future is so tangible it aches. 

“Please,” Din adds lowly, vulnerable in how earnestly he asks this of him. 

“Okay,” Luke consents quietly, nodding his head reluctantly. “Okay.” He lingers, catching his lower lip beneath his teeth. 

Reaching beneath his cloak, Din removes Luke’s lightsaber from his belt. With a finality that feels hauntingly grim, he returns it to him, laying it gently on Luke’s table. Wordlessly, there’s an implication: in case you need it. Or, worse: in case I’m not here to give it back to you.

The thought is almost too much to bear.

“Hold on,” he tells Din firmly, keeping the baby in his arms as he disappears into the house. 

Given the limited space of the X-Wing, Luke travels relatively light, but there’s certainly space for a few sentiments… and Luke is grateful for that indulgence now more than ever. From the meager belongings he brought with him, Luke finds his prize, and even looking at it now comes with a pang in his heart. It seems so distant, but realistically it wasn’t all that long ago that he, Han and Chewie stood before Leia, with an entire crowd behind them, as she placed these medals proudly around their necks. 

Luke returns to Din, stepping close enough to place the sizable piece of engraved gold into his gloved hand. 

“I want you to take this,” Luke tells him. “If the Republic tries to give you any trouble, you can show them that, and you can tell them it came from me.” 

Turning the medal over in his hands, Din takes in the sight of it, his thumb tracing over the carved insignia of the Rebellion. “What is it?” he asks. 

“It was for bravery,” Luke admits, shaking his head a little self deprecatingly. “It was given to me when the first Death Star was destroyed.”

“When _you_ destroyed it,” Din corrects quietly, and the corner of Luke’s mouth pulls downward.

“If you want to be specific, sure,” he says, trying to chuckle, but the humor fades too fast to be any comfort. 

Din watches him for a moment, unreadable. “I’d be honoured to take it,” he tells him, achingly sincere, and despite the sadness that’s quickly threatening to overwhelm him, Luke smiles faintly at him.

“I want it back,” he clarifies firmly. “So don’t get any ideas.”

Din hums, and he does something Luke doesn’t expect. Even large and obtrusive as the medal may be, Din still puts it around his neck, and tucks in under the layers of his clothes. Luke expected him to pocket it, or simply tuck it away somewhere for safekeeping, but instead he keeps it close: kept tight against his skin, and close to his beating heart.

It’s almost too much.

Luke isn’t sure if it’s the subject at hand, or the lingering uncertainty, but they’ve both returned to giving each other a cautious, uncertain berth. More than anything Luke just wants to be near to him, he wants to _touch_ him, and the restless movement of Din’s hands at his sides betrays how he feels the same. 

Clearing his throat, Din speaks again. “I want you to stay at my house; it has all of his things.” He nods to the Child in Luke’s arms. “Just to make it easier. If that’s alright with you.” 

Abruptly, Luke realizes that despite Din coming to his door many times, he’s not even sure he’s ever seen Din’s house. The intimacy involved in the offer doesn’t escape him, and he’d be lying if -- despite the gravity of the situation -- the idea didn’t also come with its own unique appeal. Unfortunately, it just isn’t enough to overshadow the unease hovering between them still. 

“Can I bring Artoo?” Luke asks, trying to smile as if to ease some of the tension from Din’s frame. Unsuccessfully -- from behind the helmet, Din’s breath sounds like a sigh instead.

“If you have to,” he relents, and Artoo gives a quiet, indignant beep, but Din remains no less stiff.

Luke nods, swallowing thickly, and… he doesn’t want to waste his opportunity. “Listen,” Luke says, taking another step closer. “Before you go. Can you tell me something?” 

In front of him, Din’s goes still. Given the night before, the question is surely ominous. Luke only realizes how it sounds once the words leave his lips; he doesn’t mean it that way, but Din nods his consent all the same. 

Cautiously, with a flicker of a smile, Luke reaches up, and he touches the edge of Din’s helmet as if he were tracing the strong line of his jaw. “What colour are your eyes?” he asks bravely, voicing the question that’s been rattling around in his head for weeks. “Would you tell me? I’d like to know.”

Din’s shoulders slump, almost with something like defeat -- as if Luke persistently chips away at him in more ways than he could possibly measure. 

“...Brown,” Din answers after a second, not without obvious hesitation. Reaching out in return, his fingers find Luke’s elbow, gently gripping in a way that feels both fond and unsteady -- as if the gesture is unfamiliar to him. “Dark. Not like yours.” 

Despite himself, Luke laughs a little, warmth flooding to his cheeks. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he tries to tease, though the air around them still feels too tense for the tone to carry as it should. “Not like mine?” 

Din makes a thoughtful sound. When he speaks, his voice is tight, like he’s pushing the words out -- afraid to say them, but far more scared to leave them unspoken. “Yours are bright,” he tells him softly, and his grip squeezes again, and abruptly Luke feels pinned under the obscured gaze of his visor. “Not like anyone else’s.”

There’s that word again: bright, and Luke can’t coherently decode the meaning in it. He wants to pry, he wants to badly to know what Din means that it settles into the core of him with an _ache_ \-- but he decides on something else instead.

Stepping forward, Luke closes the gap between them, his free hand cupping the back of Din’s helmet and pulling him close. Din gives a soft, sighing sound in reply, releasing Luke’s arm to frame his face in his palms as their foreheads press together. Eyes fluttering shut, Luke holds him there as he listens to the sound of his breathing... and it doesn’t last nearly long enough before Din draws back. 

“I have to go,” he says reluctantly, idly touching Luke’s bangs with his gloved fingertips, then reaching down to stroke the Child’s ears lingeringly. “You’ll take care of him?” 

“Like my own,” Luke answers, without hesitation, and… his chest tightens, twisting with an agonized emotion that he can’t give one single name. 

“Thank you,” Din tells him, voice tight, and -- with obvious reluctance in every step -- he turns and leaves. 

In his arms, the Child whines, ears low and tiny palms outstretched.

\--

Packing up what few things he has, Luke moves himself into Din’s house. 

Despite the offer, something about it feels inherently intrusive. Most Mandalorians seem private by the simple nature of their culture. If seeing someone’s face is forbidden, then seeing their living space also feels like some sort of invasion. Luke keeps reminding himself that he was invited here, and if there was anything condemning to be found, then Din wouldn’t have even considered it.

Still. Luke crosses the threshold with a certain sort of caution. Toeing off his boots, he wanders in, setting the Child on the floor as Artoo wheels his minimal luggage in. 

Speaking comparatively, the Mand’alor’s house isn’t any grander or more elaborate than any of the others Luke has passed by in his time here. Luke isn’t sure how much of that is a conscious piece of culture: their leader never lording himself above his people… or if Din himself chose a practical, simple lifestyle. Either way, the space is rather sparse. There’s no real decoration or much betraying personality… until he follows the toddling Child over to his room, and catches sight of the colourful menagerie of stuffed animals collected there.

Laughing, Luke steps forward, crouching to be level with the Child. “Are all these yours?” he asks, and the Child happily offers him a plush rendition of… some sort of amphibian creature? Luke can’t tell. Luke turns it over in his hands, but he isn’t given much time to decipher it before the Child hands him another toy. 

“Is this a womp rat?” Luke asks skeptically. If it is, it’s far cuter than it deserves to be. The Child keeps passing him things, and Luke chuckles, accepting them all gratefully. “Yes, I see. Thank you. Thanks. You’re a bit spoiled, aren’t you?”

Cooing, the Child smiles up at him, and Luke can see exactly why. Other than being simply adorable by nature, being the only son of the Mand’alor certainly must garner a specific sort of doting. 

Patting his head and placing the toys back on the floor, Luke straightens up again to continue his tour of the house. There isn’t too much more to familiarize himself with: a simple kitchen and dining area, a refresher and the bedroom. 

The latter settles in with specific significance as he follows Artoo in. Somehow, despite coming here, he never quite let the realization settle in that he’d be sleeping in Din’s bed. 

He’s getting carried away. Rubbing away the heat that gathers at the back of his neck, Luke sets his trunk up on the bed, focusing on unpacking his things instead. There isn’t much, all things considered, but he withdraws one object in particular with specific purpose: the manual of the Jedi’s teachings. 

Luke sighs, flipping through the pages and hoping to glean something from their contents. There’s plenty of uses of the Force that Luke has yet to attempt, purely from his own lack of time to study them. Maybe now, with Din gone for… an undetermined amount of time, Luke could practice. He’s meant to be a Jedi Master, so he should probably start acting like it.

Besides, it’ll stop him from lingering on the ominous risk involved in Din’s absence. 

Shaking his head as if to clear it, Luke takes a breath and focuses. He’s been working with the plants… maybe he should keep on it, give it his full attention. Setting the book aside, he returns to the kitchen, finding that Din has generously stocked it for his time here. The sentiment lingers on Luke more than it should, and he distracts himself by glancing back at the Child. 

“You hungry?” he says. “I ate breakfast, but how about you?” 

Given how his ears perk up as he determinedly steps forward, Luke takes that as an affirmative. Grinning, Luke slices him up some fruit. “You’re a growing kid, you probably eat a lot,” he muses aloud, casting him a scrutinizing eye. “Well, at least I think you’re growing. Slowly.” 

When Luke offers him the fruit, however, the Child frowns, glancing up at Luke as if to confirm some terrible mistake. Laughing, Luke persists. “You can’t just eat meat all the time, you know,” he scolds. 

Spoiled is right. 

With some pushing, the Child does eventually eat, though it’s certainly with less vigor than whenever Din feeds him at dinner. Once he’s had his fill, Luke scoops him up into his arms, carrying the leftover seeds outside with him.

“Apparently, there was a whole faction of Jedi that used to do this,” he tells the baby, somehow not thinking twice about talking to him as if he could understand his every word. “Probably not the most exciting job, but it must’ve helped a lot of people -- it certainly would’ve helped on Tatooine.” 

The Child tips his head this way and that, regarding Luke curiously as he sets him on the down outside. Maybe the earth is more forgiving here, and it’ll take better than it did at Luke’s house. Adjusting his cloak around himself, Luke kneels and digs out a small pocket of earth with his palm. Burying the seeds there, he takes a moment, heaving a deliberate breath as he closes his eyes…

Luke waits, concentrating, and he tries to feel the earth under his hands -- _really_ feel it. The Force connects to every living thing… and this should be no exception. So why can’t he sense anything? Because he’s thinking too hard, is the obvious answer. He needs to let his expectations go, and let it happen naturally. Luke takes in several slow, steady breaths, and empties his mind, trying to open himself to the world around him.

Specifically: this world -- Mandalore and what it means to those who make their homes here. It seems like such a natural progression, the more he thinks of it. The Mandalorians returned here, to the ruined ashes of their cities, and reclaimed what was theirs with righteous determination. The Empire tried to snuff their people out, and they stubbornly survived -- and now here they are: flourishing like plants in barren sand, digging their roots deep and refusing to crumble.

Cracking one eye open, Luke lifts his hands and peers down at the pile of dirt. He expects it to be utterly unchanged… but there’s something sprouting beneath his palms. A very tiny, precious bit of green pokes out from the ground, and Luke’s face splits into a disbelieving grin. 

“And here I thought I was a lousy farmer,” Luke tells the baby dryly, but the Child doesn’t seem to listen. He creeps forward, leaning over Luke’s hands to peek curiously at his work. It’s not much to look at, and Luke almost tells him as much… but then one tiny, clawed hand extends.

All Luke can do is watch as the tiny little sprout he’d barely managed to raise suddenly blooms to life. Months of growth pass in mere seconds, and by the time the Child tumbles over in exhaustion, there’s abruptly a sapling right outside Din’s house. Luke stares, both at the baby and at his work… and he’s so enraptured that he doesn’t hear the approaching pair of footsteps.

“Everything okay, flyboy?” Cara asks in lieu of a greeting, and Luke laughs, raking a hand back through his own hair.

“Yeah. Yes. Sorry.” Luke winces, glancing up at Cara and the Armorer alike with a welcoming smile. “Hi. I’m fine, just… taken off guard, I guess.”

Luke obviously doesn’t need to elaborate, since Cara gestures curiously towards them. “Was that... always there?” 

“No,” the Armorer answers confidently. “That’s impressive work, Master Jedi.”

Shamefully, Luke shakes his head. “You’re complimenting the wrong person,” he observes, scooping the now happily napping baby into his arms. “I just got it started, and then _he_ took over.” 

Cara glances him up and down. There’s a visible struggle on her face, as if she’s trying to reign herself in, but then she decides that she can’t help herself. “How does it feel to be upstaged by an infant?” she smirks. 

The Armorer gives her a deliberate look, clearly disapproving, but Luke just laughs, giving a groan with no real malice. “Actually,” the Armorer interjects, before Luke can reply, “I think congratulations are in order.”

Luke and Cara share a mutual look of uncertainty, and the Armorer’s voice turns distinctly amused. “You made a demonstration, and the Child followed your lead,” she says. “That makes for your first successful lesson as his teacher, does it not, Master Jedi?” 

Luke’s brows raise, then he glances down at the sleeping Child in his arms. “When you put it that way…” Luke muses, trailing off, and he can’t help a smile pulling in the corners of his mouth. 

Despite himself, a swell of pride curls in his chest. He keeps underestimating how much the Child can do, and how much he really takes in of the world around him. Luke has to wonder… When he was this young, was his connection to the Force the same? Did it gradually slip away when his mind grew tethered down to everyday inhibitions? Surely his aunt and uncle wouldn’t have nurtured that idea; too afraid that Luke would suffer his father’s fate. It would have been such a small window of time for Luke, but the Child’s lifespan extends this novel, untainted age for years. 

“Technically, I’m not supposed to be teaching him yet,” Luke adds, just a bit guiltily, but the Armorer merely shrugs one shoulder.

“Something tells me that the Mand’alor won’t mind,” she replies smoothly, and Luke stares at her, making a deliberate effort to close his mouth.

He doesn’t dare ask her to clarify what she means by that.

\--

Despite the revelation, Luke is reluctant to pursue the idea without Din’s permission. He could keep going: showing the Child more and more just to see if he could follow suit… but it seems inherently deceitful to take advantage of Din’s absence so deliberately.

It also feels deceitful to speak to Leia, for more than one reason, but here he is: listening to the sound of her baffled laughter as she sees the Child for the first time.

“I’m sorry,” Leia manages once she regains her composure, though her tone doesn’t sound apologetic in the slightest. “It’s just -- you told me it was _cute_.”

“What?” Luke says, lowering him back down into his lap as he glowers at her. “He _is_ , you don’t think that he is?!” 

Shaking her head, Leia visibly swallows back on another burst of laughter. “Absolutely not,” she tells him firmly -- and if Luke didn’t miss seeing her happy, then he might actually be offended. “How long are you watching him for?” 

Luke lowers his gaze to the baby in his lap, bouncing him idly as if to shake the guilt from his shoulders. “Until his father comes back,” he answers vaguely, deliberately refusing to call Din by either his name or his title. Leia would surely notice the difference. “He only left today, and I don’t know where he’s going.”

Desperately, he wants to ask Leia about the Republic’s latest endeavours. He wants to know what systems they’re active in, and if he could narrow down where Din may have gone… but that’s betraying Din’s trust and taking advantage of Leia all in the same breath, and he holds his tongue instead. 

For as little as she wants to acknowledge her own powers, Leia’s attuned enough to catch his unease -- or maybe Luke’s just not giving her natural intuition enough credit. Narrowing her eyes, she looks at him like she’s trying to piece together a puzzle. “Are you worried he won’t come back?” she asks slowly. 

He heaves a breath, and he tries to shrug -- though the motion is too stiff. “I’m worried about a lot of things,” he replies, dodging a more direct response. 

Luke doubts she fully realizes how right she is. To Leia’s perspective, the concern is probably more practical: worried Luke might be stranded on a potentially hostile planet if their ruler is no longer around to grant him immunity. Whatever instinct she has serves her well, and Luke wonders how long he can play it off without feeling like he’s outright lying to her. 

“You’re not telling me something,” Leia says, more matter-of-fact than accusatory, and it twists sharply in Luke’s stomach. 

He wants to tell her, more than anything, and he feels foolish for having to hold back. But really, what _is_ there to tell? Luke should feel more assured in his footing, but Din left before he could give anything a single name. 

“It’s complicated,” Luke manages at length, though he knows that’s far from a satisfying answer.

“Is it?” Leia asks coolly, arching her brow as she regards him. “Does it have something to do with how… out of maybe a thousand capable and loyal subjects, the Mand’alor left his only son with _you_?” 

Well.

There’s some relief that the grainy quality of the message won’t show the colour that rises to his cheeks. Head bowing, Luke’s stomach churns with embarrassment. “There’s not _thousands_ of Mandalorians,” Luke corrects quietly, because there’s no other reasonable objection he can make.

“You’re unbelievable,” Leia sighs, though she says it with obvious fondness. “You really weren’t going to tell me?”

“I wasn’t sure _how_ ,” Luke admits earnestly. It’s not like he’s ever needed to have that conversation before -- with _anyone_ , let alone Leia. “Honestly, I’m still not even sure where we stand.”

“Well, he trusted you with his son,” Leia points out dully. “That’s certainly something. What else? Have you seen his face?” 

“No,” Luke says immediately, with a firm shake of his head, but he abruptly goes still as his voice trails off. “Not his… face.” 

He doesn’t mean for it to sound the way it does, but once it escapes his mouth he can’t take it back. He curls his lips together, and even when he braces for it, Leia’s voice still makes him wince.

“ _Luke_ ,” Leia scolds, her eyes wide, and he cringes at her tone.

“Don’t do that,” Luke entreats weakly, leaning a little further forward in his seat. “I’m still -- figuring it out.” 

Luke hesitates, almost holding back, but he clears his throat and he continues:

“He’s been good to me,” Luke starts cautiously, and once he begins, it starts to tumble out of his mouth. “At first I thought he was… I wasn’t intimidated, exactly; I wouldn’t call it that. He just seemed so daunting, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get through to him. But he’s not like the rumours. He’s -- quiet. Kind. A good father. He takes care of his people and he’s taken care of _me_. I’m not used to...” 

Luke pauses, taking a moment, and he huffs out a disbelieving laugh of his own, bowing his head. “I’m not used to it,” Luke concludes with a shrug. “If I’m being honest. I don’t think I’ve ever been on the receiving end of… being wanted like that.” 

Leia doesn’t speak for a moment, and for once Luke is resentful of the grainy quality of the channel rather than grateful for it. She considers him for what feels like eons, her head tilting to one side as she waits for him to elaborate. 

“You’re happy there,” she concludes quietly. “Aren’t you?”

Luke doesn’t get a chance to answer before Leia presses. “How long has it been since you’ve been happy? Since you’ve done something for yourself?” 

Eyes widening, Luke scoffs a little, though his smile flickers in the corner of his mouth. “I’m not unhappy,” Luke tells her simply as if the idea is ridiculous, but Leia narrows her eyes. 

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Leia points out bluntly, and the notion sits uneasily in Luke’s chest, cold and unignorable behind his ribs. 

Something out of sight distracts her, catching her attention, and she waves a hand in acknowledgment before she sighs. “I have to go,” she tells Luke reluctantly. “I’ll call you again soon, okay?” 

“Okay,” Luke repeats. Then, as if to ease the uncertainty left by her words, he holds the baby up one last time. “Tell him he’s cute before you go.” 

Laughing, Leia shakes her head. “That’s a face only a father could love,” she retorts. “Goodbye, Luke.”

“Goodbye,” he tells her, glancing down at the baby once the transmission fades out. “That wasn’t very nice, was it?”

It’s only after, when he’s carrying the Child outside with him, that Luke wonders if she chose her phrasing deliberately. 

\--

After speaking with Leia, what follows feels like the longest day Luke’s ever spent on Mandalore. Trying to fill his idle time isn’t as simple as Luke thought it would be. There’s the unfortunate fact that Luke is now once again without a trainer, and a good chunk of his days are now unaccounted for. He could practice routines by himself somewhat, which may do well to start… but the days or weeks that follow will surely continue to drag out the longer Din is gone.

It gives him too much free time in his own mind, lingering on Din more than he should, and the more Luke tries to put it out of his mind, the more it stubbornly sticks. Leia’s voice echoes around in his head, and try as he might, he can’t be naive to the point she was trying to make. 

He loves Leia. He does feel important and valued when he’s with her, Han, and Chewie -- he’s even grown closer to Lando as time goes on. They’re family to him, and he feels safe in their company, but is that the same thing as being happy? 

“He’s hardly been gone a week,” he tells the baby very seriously as they walk together. “I can’t already have a crisis about it.”

The Child blinks his huge, wide eyes up at him, his tiny mouth parted as if in concern, and Luke sighs.

He supposes it’s overdue. Luke hasn’t been honest with himself, hasn’t let himself look at this head on… and as a result, there’s too much to unpack. Now, with Din gone, it changes: the reality of what he has only settles in when he’s dreading the thought of losing it. 

“Luke!”

Snapping back to reality at the sound of his name, Luke finds its origin easily enough: Vizsla’s other students are gathered outside, enjoying a meal together in the comfortable light of the late afternoon. He’s waved down, several faces smiling at him, and Luke accepts the invitation gladly. Pulling up a chair, he settles in, placing the baby comfortably in his lap.

“How have you been?” a slender faced woman who Luke sparred with during his first week -- Brin, Luke remembers -- asks. “We’ve missed you.” 

“Really?” Luke asks skeptically, receiving murmurs of agreement and fondness in response.

“Without you to pick on, Vizsla’s temper gets evenly dispersed,” Brin teases, winking at him over her cup. “You’re lucky to get private lessons. We’re all a little jealous.”

“Well, get your hand broken, and you can join us,” Luke counters jokingly, and the resulting laughter from around the table feels like a reward. 

“Vizsla’s just extra testy lately,” a Rodian who Luke knows vaguely as Voca adds. “He wanted to go with the Mand’alor.” 

Luke takes that in, and he remembers how both Din and the Armorer described Vizsla to him. Traditional. Protective. If he knows the mission is to assist a Mandalorian covert, it must fill him with a certain sense of obligation to help bring his brothers and sisters home. Staying behind must sting -- not necessarily out of pride, Luke imagines, but because it must feel helpless. Maybe it’s misplaced, but he thinks he’s grown to understand Vizsla a little better… 

“Protecting the planet’s just as important,” Luke reasons fairly. “Not _every_ warrior could go.” 

Voca chuckles, sliding his plate over to Luke in obvious invitation for him to share. “Try telling that to him,” he taunts, then he pauses as he considers that, looking Luke up and down. “Have you even seen Vizsla since what happened?” 

Luke accepts a slice of bread with a shrug, ripping off a bit of crust and offering it to the Child in his lap. “I’m not deliberately avoiding him,” Luke clarifies, smiling approvingly as the baby happily munches. “It just hasn’t come up.” 

Though, Luke has to admit, it does feel like delaying the inevitable.

\--

Luke spends the majority of the afternoon with the other students, and he’s grateful for the company. It helps ease the uncertainty from his shoulders, even if just for a little while, but the moment he’s alone again, doubt threatens to creep in with renewed stubbornness. 

He needs to reorient himself and luckily the walk back to the house isn’t far. Artoo greets them with a content whistle, and the baby replies with an incoherent babble of his own. Absently, Luke wonders how much he can talk to either of his two housemates before someone finds the one-sided conversations distinctly worrying. 

Generally, Luke would prefer to meditate outside, but Din’s house is deeper into the city and Luke would rather avoid the attention. He settles for the relative quiet of the bedroom instead.

Adjusting his cloak around himself, he sits cross-legged with the Child in his lap and he meditates -- or he tries to, anyway. His mind spirals rather than settling on any sort of serenity for too long. Taking several deep, steadying breaths, Luke makes the effort to empty his head, refusing to let frustration settle in, and eventually he levels out.

It feels different this time. Luke wonders, idly, if the Child has something to do with that. When he trained with Yoda, there was a specific sort of guidance he felt: Yoda’s own connection to the Force encouraging Luke long like a hand on his shoulder. Obviously, this is nowhere near as strong, but Luke can sense it all the same. As he concentrates, letting himself feel, something warm settles into his chest and feels distinctly fond. 

Luke should have considered this earlier, but the Child’s age continuously makes him doubt. He keeps underestimating how much of the Force flows through him, and there’s no question of it now: Luke can feel it, radiating warmly around him, trusting and steadying -- almost like an embrace. 

Suddenly, Artoo squawks in obvious alarm and the Child laughs delightedly. When Luke opens his eyes, he’s dangerously close to smacking his head on the high ceiling of Din’s room. Beneath them, Artoo whirls and whistles, and the Child leans over the edge of Luke’s lap to curiously wave down at him. 

At least it’s not the first time this has happened. 

“Sorry, Artoo,” Luke calls down, wrapping the baby up in his arms before he tumbles down. He lowers them to the floor, stretching his legs to land on his feet instead. “I got carried away.” 

With an indignant whistle, Artoo putters away and Luke chuckles a little. “He’s right, we both need sleep,” he agrees, carrying the Child to his room and tucking him securely into his crib. “What toys do you want? All of them?” 

Kneeling down, Luke collects a few, leaning over the crib and holding them down for the baby to assess. “Tauntaun?” he suggests, and when the Child’s face remains impassive, he tries another. “Bantha? Oh. My mistake: mythosaur, right?” 

But, forgoing any of Luke’s offerings, tiny green hands reach out for Luke’s face instead. 

Luke’s chest twists, desperately endeared, and he shakes his head. Placing the mythosaur beside him, he tucks his blankets in around him. “Leia needs her eyes checked,” he tells him sagely. “Good night.”

Luke shuts the lights off and -- after a moment of consideration -- he leaves the door open. The rooms aren’t far apart, but Luke wants to be sure he’ll hear it if he wakes. Hopefully the Child will get to sleep soon, since Luke isn’t sure how long he’ll be awake. Exhaustion suddenly creeps up on him and leaves him weary. 

Dressing down, Luke wanders to the refresher to wash himself up, but he quickly gets distracted. It seems insensitive to pry, but somehow Luke can’t help himself from checking what Din has stashed away here. The cabinet doesn’t actually have anything all that compromising, though even the ordinary, expected things stick out to him. A razor is tucked among Din’s belongings, and for the first time Luke has to wonder at the implication. 

Even though Din’s face is denied to him, Luke honestly hasn’t tried to paint any picture of him in his mind. Doing so seems… invasive, somehow, and it feels misplaced to look at Din with any specific expectation. Besides, after a time, the helmet becomes familiar enough. The only piece of him Luke can keep in his mind is his hands, his skin, and the colour of his eyes that was gifted to him like a boon -- and now, apparently, there’s the notion that Din keeps his face clean… at least to some extent. 

It lingers on Luke more than it should. With his Creed, there’s no pressure for his appearance, so he has to wonder: is it his own preference? Does he shave for comfort’s sake, or is it a personal piece of vanity that he keeps for himself, even knowing that no one else can see it? 

Closing the drawers, Luke shelves that thought deliberately, though it lurks in the back of Luke’s mind, burrowing in and refusing to leave. 

Luke finally comes to terms with settling himself into Din’s bed. He’s avoided it thus far, staying on the floor in the baby’s room for the first few days under the pretense of looking out for him. Really, he’s been avoiding another reminder of Din’s absence, and something about it has felt wrong, pressing cruelly in every time he tried:

He would have liked for his first night in Din’s bed to be _with_ him, close enough to feel his warmth, to hear his breathing. The unfairness of it aches.

Still, he has to square himself with it eventually, and as the days go on the reality of Din being gone for more than a few nights is too stark to pretend otherwise. The mattress is firm but not unforgiving, the sheets crisp and blankets soft under his palms. It all been switched out for Luke’s arrival, smelling only of soap rather than its owner, and he sinks down with a sigh, rubbing his hands tiredly over his face. He’s overthinking it, really. Pulling the covers up to his chest, he sighs, rolling over to his side and willing himself to sleep.

He does sleep, and for a good amount of time, it’s dreamless. He can’t measure how long it takes before the visions settle in, and how much their presence is influenced by his own restless longing. 

He sees Din: surrounded by a council of his people, Beskar reflecting the bright glow of a hologram they’ve gathered around. There’s debate, words too muddy for Luke to decipher, and Din halts it with a gesture of his hand. 

Another shift; another scene -- a Mandalorian whose garb resembles the Armorer embraces Din with tangible relief. Din fondly clasps cloaked shoulders, his hands disappearing into thick fur, and--

Luke’s stomach lurches and the moment changes. Din stands, cloak whipping behind him as he stubbornly pushes forward, and the Darksaber hums in his grip: a constant contradiction in how it’s both bright and dark at the same time -- like stars sucked into blackhole. 

With a sharp inhale, Luke snaps awake. He almost sits up, but instinct holds him back when he realizes the motion would upset the baby. 

Blinking, Luke’s mind gradually catches up: the Child sleeps, snoring in a quiet whistle against Luke’s chest, and the more he stares at him, the less sense it makes. 

“How did you get in here?” Luke mutters tiredly, his voice hoarse from sleep. Slowly, it starts to come together, and Luke can’t help but think his accidental display while he meditated gave the Child inspiration to float right out of his crib.

Tentatively, he reaches up to cradle the back of his head, and when the Child doesn’t stir, Luke brings him a little closer. “Your dad isn’t going to like _that_ trick,” Luke tells him sleepily, tucking the baby up under his chin as he closes his eyes, succumbing again to his exhaustion.

\--

The days continue with some semblance of routine, though it still feels sparse, and Din’s absence hangs over him persistently. He hadn’t realized just how often they’d been together until he’s gone, lingering in his dreams every time he sleeps. Still, Luke makes due: he talks to the other students, he studies, and he steadily makes a garden out of Din’s backyard. 

While not training leaves him distinctly restless, Luke makes the most of the other lessons he receives in the meantime. Gradually, he’s feeling confident enough to engage in full conversations in Mando’a -- though it’s little more than pleasantries and occasionally ordering food, Luke feels like it’s making a difference. He would also like to think that means his enunciation is less clumsy, but then again, sometimes he wonders if the Mandalorians are just indulging him. 

“ _Su'cuy,_ Anya,” Luke greets the usual woman at the canteen, her fair hair pulled back into tidy braids. She returns his smile, which is always reassuring.

“ _Su’cuy,_ ” she answers calmly, speaking slowly for Luke’s sake; they’ve gotten used to this daily exchange by now. She glances at the Child who sits tucked behind Luke’s head, and greets him with specific fondness. “ _Su’cuy, verdika.”_

Even in the short time he’s been entrusted to the Child’s care, Luke quickly realizes the effect he has on people. Potentially it’s due to his position as the Mand’alor’s son, but maybe it’s also solely to do with his looks (though Leia would disagree). Either way, he’s always treated with utter adoration everywhere they go: nestled cozily in the hood of Luke’s cloak when they walk together. 

“ _Lor'vram par t’ad_?” Luke asks, and her lips curl, clearly trying to repress a laugh, and Luke’s shoulders slump. “Oh, come on. Wasn’t that better?” 

“You know the words,” Anya assures him, unable to keep the chuckle from her voice. She starts setting up two plates regardless, so his request clearly wasn’t unintelligible. “They just sound terrible coming out of your mouth. Like your tongue is covered in sand.” 

“That’s somehow worse,” Luke mutters, feeling the Child push his tiny hands into his hair -- perking up at the smell of food.

“You’ll be fine,” she promises with a wave of her hand. “Mandalore is more than just one language, you know.” 

Luke tilts his head, clearly not catching her meaning, and she chuckles as she elaborates. “What I mean is, there’s more to fitting in with Mandalorians than just Mando’a,” she reiterates as she works. “Someone could learn to be fluent and still not be accepted because of their attitude. Sometimes we’re too… harsh for people. We’re blunt. We don’t like to beat around the bush -- and sometimes that means the easiest way to settle something is with your fists, and that doesn’t sit well with some people.” 

Smiling, she offers Luke a shrug. “When it comes to all that, you’re doing just fine,” she tells him. “You’ve settled in a lot more easily than everyone expected. People like you.” 

The reassurance does actually help. Luke has been treated warmly lately, though a part of him suspected that was mostly affection for the baby bleeding over into him by association. It’s some relief to hear he’s not entirely unwelcome. Then again…

“Most people,” Luke corrects, thinking of just one Mandalorian in particular. She laughs, nodding her understanding, but as he watches her work, he wonders… 

Is it as simple as that? 

“Actually,” Luke says quickly. “Sorry to do this -- but can I get this to go?”

\--

When he leaves the baby with Cara, he again feels like she and Leia would get along famously. Her face scrunches up in distinct despair as Luke passes the Child into her arms, and even as she agrees to watch him, it’s with obvious reluctance. 

“I’ll be back,” he promises, but he doesn’t risk telling Cara what he intends to do. Mostly, he doesn’t want anyone to try talking him out of it -- or to gain an accidental audience. 

When he arrives at the training gym, the class is wrapping up, and Luke’s appearance is almost lost in the busy hustle. Brin notices him first, elbowing her partner with significance, and it carries on like that: moving through the class like a wave until Vizsla himself catches on. 

“ _Su cuy'gar,_ ” Luke greets, utterly formal, respectful, and not in the least bit smug, and Vizsla immediately stops to regard him. 

“What do you want?” he asks, his voice low with suspicion, and Luke dares a step forward: his hands folded neatly in front of him.

“I want you to train me,” Luke replies simply, and the only response he earns is Vizsla’s startled, scoffing laughter. 

Undeterred, Luke presses forward. “I want to settle things,” Luke continues, stepping up to the padded mats where Vizsla stands. “I’m challenging you here, Paz Vizsla, with witnesses.” Luke nods to the lingering students, who are steadily giving them a wider berth. “I won’t even use my powers. Do you accept?” 

Vizsla stands, tall and terribly still, as he regards him for a long, careful moment. Maybe he’s sizing him up, wondering how much he’s changed with Din as his teacher, or maybe he’s wondering if fighting Luke at all would earn him Din’s scorn. 

“What are your terms?” Vizsla asks, folding his arms over his chest, and Luke makes the considerable effort to contain his smirk.

“If I win, I come back to class,” Luke states firmly. 

Vizsla rolls his neck, which gives Luke the impression that he’s also rolling his eyes. That’s clearly not the half he’s worried about. “And if you lose?” he asks. “What can you offer me?”

Luke anticipated this already. The obvious exchanges can’t be made, given that Luke is obligated to the Mand’alor -- he can’t tell Vizsla he’ll leave the planet in shame or stop learning. So what does he gain from fighting Luke? He steadies himself, reaching his hand under his cloak, and he makes his gamble.

“My lightsaber,” he tells him simply, holding it out trustingly. “If I lose, it’s yours, and you join the greatness of your ancestors who bested Jedi in battle.” 

For a moment, Vizsla merely looks at him, debating before he takes the lightsaber from Luke’s hand. With a burst of light that casts green over his armour, Vizsla examines it: giving a few slow, sure sweeps in the air as if to test the weight of it. After a long moment of consideration, he chuckles, and turns the lightsaber off before he tosses it back to Luke. 

“I accept,” Vizsla declares, backing away to collect a pair of quarterstaffs. “Lose the sword, but use your powers.” The offer takes Luke off guard, and it must show on his face, since Vizsla continues. “I can’t join my ancestors if you don’t fight like you’re supposed to, can I, Jedi?” 

Luke doesn’t hide his grin this time. He catches the staff easily, dropping the cloak from his shoulders as he settles into his stance. “You’ve underestimated me,” Luke warns. 

“Less talking,” Vizsla chides, and that’s all the warning he gives before he charges. 

Fighting Vizsla is different than sparring with Din. Vizsla’s armour is heavier, which slows him down, but it also means he can endure quite an ordeal. Luke’s smaller stature works to his advantage, and so does the light-footedness with which the Force allows him to move. Both things manage to keep him mostly out of Vizsla’s range -- but he’s keenly aware that if Vizsla _does_ land a blow, it’ll be devastatingly hard. 

There’s a few close calls where Luke narrowly blocks Vizsla’s swings, or just barely ducks in time to dodge him. He’s a worthy opponent, and on more than one occasion it’s only a Force-aided jump out of the way, or the ability to pull his quarterstaff back after being disarmed that keeps Luke in the fight. In comparison, Luke has gotten a few good hits in himself -- but the unfortunate barrier of Vizsla’s armour means it doesn’t count for much. 

Which might mean he has to get creative.

Luke winces as he blocks high over his head, instinct warning him too late as Vizsla delivers one hard kick into Luke’s stomach. The strength of it sends him tumbling to the mats below, and when Vizsla looms over him, readying another blow, but Luke’s hand extends and he _pushes--_

All of Vizsla’s thick, sturdy armour abruptly seems to count for nothing as he’s thrown back, hitting the wall of the gym with an audible thud. The impact rattles him, quarterstaff lost as he uses both hands to catch his fall, and Luke is right there with him before he can rise to his feet. Standing tall above him, Luke taps the end of his staff under Vizsla’s chin, breathless but triumphant. 

Then, an unfortunate thought settles in: Luke had planned this whole encounter, but he hadn’t actually braced himself for Vizsla’s anger should he lose. Very much aware of how still Vizsla has become, Luke grips his quarterstaff a little more firmly, actually bracing himself rather than merely holding Vizsla down by imaginary threat.

Then, rather than any furious reaction Luke can anticipate, Vizsla laughs. 

At first, Luke is too startled to do more than stare at him. Then, as if infected, Luke laughs too, dropping the staff aside and offering Vizsla out his hand instead. Vizsla accepts, letting Luke help him to his feet -- then he drags Luke tight against him, chuckling as he clutches Luke’s body to the very hard, unyielding Beskar of his chest. 

“I’m going to buy you enough _tihaar_ to drown in, Jedi,” he promises merrily, and Luke can’t help but grin. 

“Luke,” he corrects, just a little entreating. “Call me Luke.” 

\--

Luke doesn’t expect Vizsla’s offer to be so sincere. When he steps into the dining hall, he barely makes it past the doorway before he’s greeted with a hero’s welcome. There’s cheers that Luke doesn’t feel nearly so deserving of, and he handed a tall flask of clear, sweet smelling alcohol before he can even find a seat.

Instinctively, he wants to ask Vizsla to drink with him, but he knows the offer is misplaced. It’s a shame, since Luke would like to continue on good terms, and he certainly can’t drink all of this himself. 

“You’ve been busy.”

Cara’s voice catches him through the chaos, and Luke beams when he sees her -- then he quickly clarifies. “Where’s the baby?” 

“Oh, relax,” Cara tells him, rolling her eyes as she leans back in her seat. “He’s with the other half. I can only do the baby thing for so long, and besides…” She looks him up and down, her gaze fixing on the bottle in his hand. “You need someone to help you with that?” 

Well. Luke has been in the mood to celebrate, and he definitely needs a drinking partner… So, Luke sits himself across from Cara, and he drinks. 

The game that they settle on is very simple, and honestly very stupid: they just keep taking shots until one of them is incapable of taking them anymore. They draw it out, of course, since neither of them are keen to end this quickly -- and because they’ve attracted a crowd, and at some point, when it became clear that Luke wasn’t simply going to fall out of his seat, they started placing bets.

Grinning, Luke and Cara knock their glasses together, knock the shots back, then slam them firmly upside-down against the table. It still burns, and Luke laughs as Cara reaches for the pitcher. 

“You do _not_ look like you can drink,” Cara tells him, with clear awe, and Luke smiles hugely at her. 

“There’s nothing else to do on Tatooine,” Luke explains. Just a little unsteadily, he raises his hand, counting down on three fingers. “You shoot, you race, and you drink… that’s it.” 

“Full of surprises,” Cara observes, her hand remarkably steady as she pours them another round.

On the next shot, they loop their arms together as they knock them back. Luke wavers, just a little, but he keeps his posture straight. 

“Listen,” he asks her, his voice surprisingly steady -- though it’s with deliberate effort. “Cara, listen. Um. You’re very beautiful.”

Cara laughs, loud and genuine, showing a flash of her teeth. “Glad you told me; I hadn’t noticed,” she teases. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

“You think so?” Luke asks with utmost sincerity, propping one elbow on the table and cupping his chin in his palm. “I can’t tell. _Leia’s_ beautiful.” 

“She sure is,” Cara agrees without hesitation, raising her glass to emphasize the point. “Gotta watch that; I’m a married woman.” Luke raises his own glass on instinct, knocks it to Cara’s, then gulps it down. Cara hisses on her exhale, then continues speaking as if uninterrupted. “What? You don’t think it’s genetic?”

“Mh, maybe,” Luke muses, taking his turn to refill their drinks. “I just never think about it and Din is… very handsome.” 

“Shut up,” Cara utters disbelievingly, reaching over the table to sock him firmly in the arm. Her entire posture changes, her eyes wide as she stares at him. “You’ve seen his face?” 

Ow. Luke winces, rubbing his arm, and heat rises quickly to his cheeks. “No, no I haven’t,” he insists quickly. “That’s not what I meant. I haven’t seen his face, but he’s just… you know, he’s handsome.”

For a moment, Cara simply stares at him, then her mystified expression disappears into a fit of laughter. “No, I don’t know,” she scoffs. “I don’t spend much time thinking _any_ man is handsome, much less one with his face covered. You really are in deep, huh?” 

His face burns from embarrassment more than the alcohol at this point -- or both, really. It’s probably both. “You didn’t think your wife was beautiful before she took her helmet off?” he counters smoothly, nudging her under the table with his boot. “You don’t get to make fun of me.” 

“I’ll make fun of you as much as I want,” Cara argues, snatching her glass off the table and winking at him. “Drink.” 

Luke obeys, the shot sitting warmly in his belly, and he has to blink at Cara a few times before she comes back into focus. “I’ve gotta tell you, I’m impressed,” she says, and it takes Luke a moment to realize she doesn’t mean his drinking. “Ever since he got set up here on this planet… do you know how many people went after him? There’s been a lot.”

“There has?” Luke repeats thickly, the gradually building intoxication stalling his focus.

“Yeah, he’s king of this place, for one,” Cara reminds with a scoff. “For two, he’s arguably the best warrior, and you know he’s good with kids -- he’s the ideal Mando package. But he never seemed interested, so everyone stopped trying.” 

Luke takes it all in for a second. Really, he somehow hadn’t thought of it that way. Of course Din would be considered a commodity -- who wouldn’t want to marry a king? There’s countless formidable Mandalorians among them, and it’s very likely that some of their greatest fighters approached him… but none of them caught his eye. 

But Luke did.

A stupid, giddy excitement bubbles in Luke’s chest, urged on by all the alcohol in his stomach. Laughing, he leans his weight into his palm, grinning stupidly at Cara. “He likes me,” he declares smugly. 

“Can’t imagine why,” Cara taunts, but Luke just keeps laughing. 

“Oh, I’m so happy,” Luke sighs with something like relief, snatching up his glass. “Here--” Clicking it quickly against Cara’s, he gulps it down, grinning as he finishes. “Listen, I--” 

Luke cuts himself short. Even disoriented as he is, Luke feels it before he sees him. The doors to the dining hall open, and the room erupts in a joyous welcome. Among the crowd of Mandalorians that enter, proud and triumphant, Din stands at the back: ensuring no one falls behind. When Luke sees him--

Standing up is a bad idea. The act of getting to his feet somehow strikes the alcohol to hit him all at once, and Luke wobbles -- very treacherously -- before he finds his balance and rushes forward. It’s probably more accurate to say that he falls onto Din, rather than any other definition of the gesture, and he’s relieved Din reacts quickly enough to keep him upright. He grabs tight on Luke’s forearms, stopping him from outright colliding with a faceful of Beskar.

“You’re back!” Luke greets, smiling hugely up at him. “You’re back; you’re home!” 

At first, Din simply stares at him. “You’re drunk,” he counters, as if in disbelief, and Luke stupidly nods.

“Mh, a little bit,” Luke allows, then he thinks for a moment, noting how the world spins in his periphery, then reconsiders: “A lot. Cara and I were drinking! Drinking and talking and I missed you so much! I beat Paz! So he keeps buying me drinks.” 

Throwing his hands up, he frames Din’s helmet adoringly in his palms. “D’you want a drink?” he asks, his voice at last edging into a slur. “It’s _very_ good and you can barely taste the alcohol.” 

“Maybe you want to think about that question for a minute,” Din invites, the humour in his voice louder than Luke has ever heard before. “And run that by me again?” 

Luke’s brain quickly catches up to him, and he winces, smoothing his hand over the collar of Din’s cloak as if in apology. “I’m sorry; you’re right, I’m sorry,” he repeats uselessly. “I’m just too excited -- I’m so happy to see you again. Are you happy to see me?” 

“Haven’t decided yet,” Din replies, and in Luke’s very inebriated state of mind, the taunt feels impossibly cruel. 

“Don’t make fun of me,” Luke entreats, laughing helplessly as he tugs on Din’s cloak. “Cara’s been making fun of me all night. Mh, d’you know Cara doesn’t think you’re handsome? Even though I do?” 

“Really?” Din muses, and Luke is too far gone to realize the interest is exaggerated. 

“Really,” Luke insists firmly, unconsciously leaning more and more weight into Din’s steady frame as his own balance fails him. “She’s crazy; I think you’re _very_ handsome. Do you think I’m handsome? Look at me and be honest.”

Din does look at him, but all he does is sigh. “Okay,” Din says patiently, looping Luke’s arm around his shoulders to keep him upright. Bearing his weight, he turns the two of them back towards the entrance. “Let’s go, then.”

“Noo, answer the question,” Luke protests, stumbling for the first few steps. “That’s not fair-- oh, wait.” Luke cranes his neck to glance behind them, seeking out Cara’s blurry face. With a very profound lack of grace, he tries to worm his way out of Din’s hold, reaching back towards their table. “Cara and I had a bet going -- we haven’t finished our game. She’s gonna take all my credits! Cara!” 

Heaving a deep, slow sigh, Din gives in. Luke gives a startled, undignified sound as Din’s arms wrap around his middle, and with a surprising lack of strain, he hoists Luke whole body over his shoulder and carries him out the door. 

\--

Luke talks the whole way home, blathering stupidly into the small of Din’s back as his limbs dangle uselessly. “And _then_ , the baby just does it! Like I haven’t been trying to do it for my whole life. Well. Not my _whole_ life. But y’know. You’re _very_ strong, do you know that?”

“I do know, since that’s the third time you’ve told me since we started walking,” Din explains dryly, giving him a little bounce up his shoulder when he starts slipping. 

“Mmh, well you are,” Luke insists. “Do you carry a lot of people like this? Bounties and stuff? Runaway princes? Hey.” Hazily, Luke tries to crane his head to look at him, though he quickly realizes it’s impossible. “Hey. _I’m_ a runaway prince.”

“No, you’re not,” Din tells him, not unkindly but matter-of-fact.

“No, I’m not,” Luke agrees sagely. “Mh, that sounds romantic, though. Has anyone ever fallen in love with you? On a mission, I mean?” 

Huffing out a laugh, Din’s voice stays flat. “I usually just put them in carbonite before they get the chance.”

“Like Boba Fett!” Luke declares loudly, seized by a sudden excitement that inspires him to wiggle uselessly in Din’s hold. Din needs both hands to stop Luke from straight up falling to the ground, and he grunts with exertion.

“How do you know Boba Fett?” Din asks skeptically, more disbelievingly than truly seeking an answer, but Luke babbles all the same. 

“Oh, he tried to sell my friend to Jabba the Hutt,” he explains casually, “I got ‘im back though.” Luke pauses, sighing, and he continues. “Din, you’re _very_ strong.”

“Yeah. I got that part.”

Nudging the door to his house open with his elbow, Din carries Luke inside. When they enter, Artoo whistles loudly, and Din’s reply sounds less than impressed.

“Move it, droid,” he mutters, and Luke can’t help bristling on Artoo’s behalf. 

“Hey, that’s rude,” Luke chides. “He’s my friend -- and he’s been cleaning your house, by the way.”

“Then everything better be where I left it,” Din warns, and Artoo abruptly makes himself scarce.

Din takes a few short strides inside, crossing over to his room, and he drops Luke unceremoniously onto the bed. The mattresses bounces underneath him, and Luke gives a startled burst of laughter. Blinking several times to clear his vision, he stares up at Din, and affection swells so strongly in his chest that it might burst.

“You’re a mess,” Din tells him, reaching down to cup Luke’s ankle in his palm. Lifting his leg up, his other hand finds the zipper at the back of Luke’s boot and pulls it down. “How did you manage to save the galaxy?”

“Don’t be mean,” Luke chastises, laughing under his breath. He tilts his head, watching as Din works his boot off with steady, determined focus. There’s something very doting in the gesture: quietly attentive in a way that lingers on him. “Also, I was sober.”

“Mh, that would probably help,” Din agrees, mockingly serious, his hand lingering on Luke’s ankle for a moment before starting on his second boot. The soft hum of the zipper seems loud in the otherwise silent room, and Luke finds himself staring.

“I don’t usually get drunk,” Luke promises. “S’not like me.”

“I figured not,” Din says thoughtfully, “doesn’t seem like you.” He slides Luke’s boot off, his palm slipping slowly along the firm muscle of his calf. “Too irresponsible. You’ve got too many expectations to keep -- too many people asking things of you.” Din’s helmet tilts, glancing at Luke’s face as he reaches up, unfastening the cloak from around his neck. 

“It’s too heavy for one person,” he muses, his voice little more than a murmur. “The weight of all that.” 

Luke blinks up at Din, trying to will his head into clearing. Hazily, he realizes what Din means, but he’s too far gone to act on it. His aunt and uncle, Ben, the Rebellion, Yoda… a long list of people Luke has spent his life obeying, with too dire of consequences to even think of failure. 

Is Din worried about that? Is he afraid of the Creed joining the long line of demands that Luke has been burdened with? Luke wants to clarify -- he wants to tell Din how different it is here, how _happy_ he’s been here… but it all seems too difficult to muster.

“Oh, c’mere,” Luke pleads instead, his hands reaching imploringly towards him. “C’mere and lay down with me. I missed you.” 

Even intoxicated as he is, Luke figures Din would object. Instead, he relents: settling into the space between Luke’s outstretched arms. Smiling stupidly, Luke tucks his face into the crook of Din’s neck, wiggling up as close to him as he can muster. The Beskar doesn’t make for the most comfortable experience, but at this point Luke is too giddy to care. 

“I had dreams about you in this bed,” Luke admits hazily, and Din’s posture visibly tightens.

“You’re too drunk to talk to me like that,” Din chides, and Luke makes a negating sound, shaking his head a little. 

“No, no, not like that,” he clarifies, letting his eyes drift shut. “Visions. Told me you were okay.” Sighing sleepily, he tucks himself close against Din’s chest, nestling snugly against him. “I’m glad you’re home.” 

Din makes a thoughtful sound, as if he’s uncertain of how to respond to that, and his hand cards idly through Luke’s hair. “I still don’t believe some of the things you can do.”

“Mh?” Luke intones, only half hearing him, and Din lays a firm hand on his head to keep him close. 

“Never mind. I’m glad too,” he admits softly. “Go to sleep, _cyar’ika._ ”

“I dunno what that means,” Luke mumbles tiredly, and Din hums.

“I’ll tell you later.”

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is this then?” Luke asks, honest and curious, rather than expectant. “Between the two of us?” Then, after a moment, he rephrases: “What would you like it to be?”

Luke wakes up with an unpleasant pressure pulsing behind his eyes. Grunting under the sting of the light that filters through the window, he buries his head under the covers -- but any attempt to gain a few more precious hours of sleep is sufficiently stolen by the ache thudding in his skull. Groggy and sore, it takes a moment for his mind to catch up, but when he does… 

Embarrassment hurts him more than the hangover does, the reality of how much he humiliated himself crashing in on him like a weight. Groaning a little, Luke retreats deeper under the covers, his cheeks burning as his memory cheerfully recalls the night before with very little gaps to spare his pride. 

He isn’t sure how he’s going to look at Din with a straight face now. 

Luke hears footsteps, and he winces, making himself very still -- but apparently not fooling anyone. “How are you feeling under there?” Din asks dryly. 

“Stupid,” Luke admits, half muffled by the bedding. 

Din scoffs, and Luke hears a solid click against the bedside table. “You should drink this,” Din advises from somewhere up above him, “It’ll help.”

There’s no retreat of footsteps yet, and when Din speaks again, Luke can’t read his tone.

“I’ll be right back,” he continues. “I have to go find my son.”

Oh. Luke cringes, and he drags the covers down the barest inch, just enough that he can look up at him. Even with his head pounding, and embarrassment chewing at his belly, seeing Din makes his chest flutter. Din gazes down at him, his armour cast in the warm orange glow of the morning light, and he’s… handsome, is the word that comes again. Which is a fact that Din must know all too well now, given that Luke said it maybe twenty times the night before. Swallowing thickly, Luke’s face burns, and abruptly all he can think about is how he humiliated him.

“I didn’t abandon the baby to get drunk,” he promises, dread swelling up in his throat. “He’s with the Armorer.”

“I know that already,” Din assures him, either meaning one statement or the other… or both, Luke isn’t sure. Nodding his head to the bedside table, where a steaming cup sits, he repeats. “Drink that. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

Luke waits until Din is gone to make good on the suggestion. Propping himself up on his elbows, he collects the cup with an unsteady hand. It smells like… well, it smells distinctly unpleasant, but if Din is convinced it’ll help, then so be it. Luke braces himself, and he knocks it back like a child taking medicine, cringing as the bitterness mixes in with the stale, lingering taste of alcohol in his mouth. 

Heaving out a breath, Luke almost convinces himself that he’s ready to wake up -- then before he even knows it, he’s dead to the world again.

Luke sleeps for a length of time that he can’t coherently measure. There isn’t one single thing that wakes him, but when he stirs, it’s with much less agony than the first time. Whatever Din gave him certainly helped, and he shakes his hair out a little as if to clear the cobwebs from his head.

Add this morning to the long list of ways Din has looked out for him.

Apart from the dull ache and a sour taste in his mouth, Luke thinks he’s faring decently. He can tell he’s not going to be sick, which certainly counts for something -- but he’s going to have to leave this bed sometime, so it might as well be now. Daring to poke his head out from underneath the blankets, Din is nowhere to be seen, and Luke isn’t sure if he’s relieved or worried. Maybe if Din has left for the morning, he can at least make himself presentable before he returns. Forcing himself to sit up, Luke rubs his hands over his eyes and heaves several deep breaths. 

Despite knowing how he has to apologize for the scene he made, Luke _is_ excited to see him again. Din’s back, very much in one piece, and Luke has so much to tell him.

As he tries to pull himself together, he hears something from down the hall, and two realizations strike: one, that Din is indeed in the house, and two, that he’s singing. 

Throwing off the covers, Luke leaves the bedroom and follows the sound of Din’s voice, his bare feet making very little sound as he moves. He’s in the Child’s room, Luke quickly realizes -- because of course he is -- and the thought settles into Luke’s chest with an undefinable ache. After he collected him from the Armorer’s care, he obviously brought him home... and how much he missed him carries in the sound of his voice.

Luke can’t make out the words yet, but he can hear Din singing: low and gentle, soothing --

\--and utterly lacking any metallic timbre. 

All at once, Luke whips around, his heart leaping into his throat as he ducks back into the bedroom as quickly as possible. The gravity of what he almost walked into feels like a weight in his stomach, and he slowly lets out a shuddering exhale.

A few more steps, and Luke might have seen his face. With a shameful pull in his chest, Luke almost wishes he’d been just a few seconds slower to realize -- but he knows Din might never forgive himself for the slip, for making himself too comfortable in Luke’s presence.

That also comes with a lingering, intoxicating notion: Din felt safe enough to take his helmet off in the first place.

Closing his eyes, he sits with his back to the bedroom door frame, and he listens to Din sing. It’s harder for Luke to follow the language this way, but he can gather the gist of it: about old wars and the Mandalorians who waged them, taking their place in the stars at the end of all things. 

At first, it seems sad to him, but as the verses go on, Luke reconsiders. There’s a certain affection carried in Din’s voice, and he realizes this retelling of old battles is meant to be fond rather than dismal. Like those ancient warriors: Din left, he fought, and he came back -- and after his last mission, he’ll join the other Mandalorian kings from before him and watch over his Clan even then.

“Din,” Luke calls over his shoulder when the song peters out, feeling cruel to insert himself into the moment, but feeling like he’s intruding to stay silent. “I’m awake.” 

It takes a moment before Din rejoins him, and waiting for him gives Luke an unexpected rush of adrenaline. When he steps back into the bedroom, fully armoured and his helmet in place, the smile on Luke’s face appears of its own accord -- without thought or any lingering shame, sincere and unbidden. 

There’s an unspeakable affection that he can’t quell when he glances up at him. He’s missed Din terribly, and while he hasn’t exactly been ignorant to that fact, actually seeing him again makes it achingly clear. His chest twists up, his throat tight, and it’s absurd how immediately he wants to touch him. 

Rising up to his feet, he resists the urge to reach for Din and drags his hand back through his unkempt hair instead. “Morning,” he greets. 

“Good morning,” Din replies, glancing over him. “You’re in better shape than I thought.”

“I’ve got a sturdy constitution,” Luke jokes, though the heat rising to his skin doesn’t make him look so cocky. 

“I figured you must,” Din muses, “Since you told me you couldn’t taste the _tihaar_ \-- and that stuff can peel paint off the hull of a ship.” 

Given the very unpleasant taste lingering in Luke’s mouth, he doesn’t doubt that for a second. It’s probably a good thing that Din can’t actually kiss him. “Honestly, I think some of the stuff we drank on Tatooine was _meant_ to peel paint off ships,” he admits, feeling even more sheepish when Din doesn’t laugh. 

“How much do you remember from last night?” Din asks instead, and Luke winces.

“All of it, unfortunately,” Luke admits, cringing just a little as he forces himself to think about it. “Or, I think so, anyway.”

It feels worse and worse the more the memory simmers. Luke didn’t only embarrass himself, but he embarrassed Din in front of his whole community. Luke was never really sure if the two of them were very discreet to begin with, but any lingering hope of it can be sufficiently thrown out the window.

“I’m sorry,” Luke continues weakly. “I didn’t mean to make a scene like that. Are people talking?” 

“Probably,” Din answers, tilting his head to the side. “You made yourself hard to ignore; you’re very loud when you’re drunk.” 

Heat rising to his face, Luke shakes his head. As far as his memory tells him, he was speaking at a perfectly respectable volume -- which goes to show how impaired his judgment was. He can’t think of a worse way for Din’s people to find out that the two of them are… what? Seeing each other? The fact that they still don’t have a name for this only makes it worse.

Then again, Luke living in Din’s house and watching his son for an extended period of time probably said enough in itself. Luke’s drunken adorations likely just confirmed the mess of rumors that had been circling the city since Din left. 

“Are you upset?” Luke asks, needing to clarify. He doesn’t feel anger from Din -- whether that means he’s unbothered by it, or just resigned to the humiliation, Luke can’t say for sure. 

“That’s not the word I’d use,” Din offers cryptically, and Luke frowns. He never likes to deliberately pry for emotions when his motivation is purely selfish, but even when he focuses, Din’s demeanour is decidedly muddy. 

“What word would you use?” Luke counters, brows raised -- and then, as if boldness could distract from his embarrassment: “Another one I don’t have the translation for?” 

That garners a reaction. Din stiffens, and Luke holds the contact with his visor without flinching. As much as his own certainty makes him nervous, the way they’re both edging around one another also feels too strained. It’s almost as if they’re both being _too_ respectful of the other’s boundaries. Luke has to say something, and at this point it almost feels more deceitful to be anything other than upfront about how he feels. 

“It sounded nice when you said it,” Luke coaxes, daring a step closer to him. “I’d like to know what it means.”

It’s been so long, and the ache of his absence fills up the longer Luke looks at him. Luke allows himself the indulgence: he places his palms on Din’s chest, feeling the smooth, warm Beskar that’s become so familiar to him. 

“And I liked hearing you sing,” Luke offers with a smile, desperate to pull some sort of response out of him, and Din bows his head as if it’s too much to look at Luke directly. “You have a nice voice.” 

Din glances aside, and Luke wonders if his pulse is hammering under the layers of his armour. He doesn’t answer, but his hand raises to cover Luke’s -- not removing or guiding him, but simply holding on, his thumb moving along the back of Luke’s wrist in a slow, steady slide. 

“You should wash up,” Din tells him, rather than accept the compliment directly. 

Luke sighs, though as he slides his tongue against his teeth, feeling an undeniable grit there, he can’t actually find a good reason to argue. He can’t push this, and trying to force Din when he’s not comfortable will gain him no ground.

Relenting, Luke parts from him, stepping down the hall and into the ‘fresher -- but hesitating before he closes the door behind him. After a moment of thought, he leaves the door propped open, and doesn’t let himself wonder at the implication. Shrugging out of his clothes, he steps under the spray of water, and the rush of heat soothes the lingering ache thudding at the crown of his skull. For several seconds, Luke just stays like that: head bowed under the water, and then his mind wanders as he washes up. 

It takes awhile before he opens his mouth. Unbidden, his mind pulls up some old song that he’s not even sure he fully remembers, but once he starts, the words keep coming, a little flat, maybe, but warm and familiar over the noise of the shower. He keeps the tune with him when he’s done, singing under his breath as he dries off -- and he’s barely shrugged into a clean change of clothes before Din steps through the open door. 

Luke just manages to turn around before Din’s arms lock around his waist, smooth beskar pushing the material of his shirt up without meaning to, and pressing against his bare back. Luke gives a startled gasp of laughter as he’s hoisted off his feet, gripping tight on Din’s shoulders as he’s carried from the room and back towards the bed. 

When he hits the mattress, Luke beams, still breathless with laughter. Disheveled but happy, he reaches greedily up towards Din as he descends on him.

“Darling,” Din manages tightly, his gloved hand pushing back Luke’s still wet hair. “It means darling -- beloved.” 

_Beloved._

That’s enough to quiet his laughter, though the ghost of it remains in the reverent, awed smile on his face. Heart thudding in his chest, Luke frames Din’s helmet in his hands, simply looking at him for a moment before he lets their foreheads touch. He holds him there, eyes clenched shut, and he feels--

“ _Cyar’ika,_ ” Luke says softly, pressing his lips to the warm metal of Din’s helmet. 

One gloved hand cups the back of Luke’s head to keep him close, and above him, Din makes a noise that he only belatedly recognizes as a teasing scoff. 

“You actually said it right,” Din utters, clearly disbelieving. 

“Hey!” With a mock huff of offense, Luke stretches his hand out, grabbing one of Din’s pillows and smacking him upside the head with it. 

“If I didn’t miss you so much, I’d throw you out of this bed,” Luke threatens, but he’s smiling too wide for it to even be mockingly sincere. 

Din hums, sounding rather unconvinced, and his thumb rubs at droplets of water that are caught in the dip of Luke’s chin. “It’s _my_ bed,” Din observes dryly. “Really made yourself comfortable here while I was gone, didn’t you?” 

Luke didn’t mean it like that, but he supposes the point stands. He likes living in the city, rather than on its outskirts: being among the people and hearing the idle buzz of activity in the streets. More than that, he likes living with the Child -- more than he anticipated he would. Even the more tedious parts of watching a baby come with their own endearments. Din’s been gone, and Luke _has_ settled right in. Whether that’s what he set out to do or not, it happened almost too easily. 

“Luke.”

The sound of his name on Din’s lips is still new, unfamiliar, and it fills Luke up, bringing heat flushing over his skin. It must seem juvenile, all things considered, but Luke hears it once and he just wants Din to say it again. 

“I missed you too,” Din admits at length, his voice even softer than usual, and Luke _feels_ it as he says it. Din’s affection bleeds into him, and it’s not what Luke expects: the sensation quietly simmers, burning under his skin, and Luke realizes Din is trying to restrain himself.

Luke doesn’t want him to -- he wants to feel everything Din has to offer him. It’s taken so long for them to reach this point, and holding back now feels torturous. Luke lays beneath him, his hands squeezing on the firm muscle of his upper arms, and he’s so close…

“Listen,” Din says, just a bit tensely, drawing back from Luke with an obvious reluctance. He rearranges himself, sitting on the edge of the bed with both feet firmly on the floor. “I have to help the new covert get settled today, but after… it’s been awhile, and we should talk.” 

“Of course,” Luke answers automatically. “I don’t have a lesson planned, but I can put something together.” 

Din shifts, uncharacteristically uncertain as he restlessly runs his hands along the sheets. “That isn’t what I meant,” Din clarifies quickly. “Not to talk about the Force. Just… to talk. You and I.” 

Oh. 

Luke smiles, pushing himself up on his elbows and sitting up in the bed. “I’d like that,” he tells him, utterly sincere, and in the spirit of following through... he allows himself to lean his cheek against Din’s shoulder.

Nervousness, strange and unfamiliar, flickers from Din’s steady posture, and Luke can’t help being endeared. 

After they’ve untangled themselves enough for Luke to get dressed and make himself presentable, he starts to pack his things. While Din was clearly teasing about Luke making himself comfortable, it certainly is hard to argue otherwise given how much of himself he inserted here in such a short amount of time. 

“How did the mission go?” Luke asks, feeling stupid for not inquiring sooner. Obviously, the covert returned safely, but he feels insensitive for not bringing it up until now. “Can I ask you? You weren’t hurt?” 

“I’m fine,” Din assures him, as if it wasn’t already apparent. “Flying in and out was the worst of it: didn’t want the locals to mistake us for the Republic, or the other way around.

“Given the bleeding heart of the Republic,” Din continues steadily, folding one of Luke’s cloaks for him. “The ingenious warlord thought it’d be a brilliant idea to take a third party -- our people -- hostage. Figured it’d give them some sort of bartering chip.” 

Luke can’t help himself from smirking. “Did you see the look on his face when he realized who he was threatening?” 

Din seems to think about that for a moment, his head tilting side to side before he answers. “Briefly.” 

The implication says enough, and Luke scoffs, raising his brows a little. Well, that's one conflict settled; maybe Leia will be grateful to hear about it. 

Toddling forward from his own room, the Child approaches Luke’s ankles. Entirely too perceptive, his ears droop as he watches Luke work. “Don’t look at me like that,” Luke implores. One tiny hand grips at Luke’s boot as he gazes up at him, eyes impossibly huge, and it goes right to Luke’s chest. 

“Did he behave himself?” Din asks, and Luke smirks at him.

“Mostly,” he teases, before continuing more sincerely. “He was pretty perfect, all things considered. Nothing to report.”

Din huffs a little laugh. “He’s a good little womp rat,” he agrees, before casting a judging gaze down at the Child. “When he’s not acting like a Jawa.”

As if he can sense his father’s scorn, the Child giggles, and Luke laughs too, shaking his head from side to side. “I’ve gotten used to this,” Luke admits, smiling at Din slyly as he packs. “I’m a little sad to leave.” Where he stands beside him, Din slows his motions, his hands drawing back towards his sides. 

“You don’t have to go.”

The offer takes him off-guard, and Luke stares at him. Din stands, arms folded in front of him and his posture stiff, and every inch of him is desperately serious. The implication of that does not escape him, and Luke immediately shakes his head. 

“What? Din. No,” he insists, laughing as if the idea is out of the question. In reality, the very thought makes his pulse skip, and he forces himself not to linger on it too long. “Don’t be ridiculous; I can’t do that. This is your house.” Luke nods his head to their surroundings. “I can’t do that to you. You wouldn’t be able to relax in your own home.”

Whatever response he expects doesn’t come. Instead, Din doesn’t reply, merely nodding his head, and Luke feels like there’s something he’s swallowed down rather than speak aloud.

\--

When they finally step outside, Luke drags his luggage behind him, Artoo following at his heels. Din carries the little one in one arm, while Luke reaches to squeeze down on the other. 

“Wait -- before you go -- did you see?” he asks, tugging Din towards the opposite side of the house. Maybe he didn’t, if he returned to Mandalore late at night and went straight to the Armorer in the morning. The way he cocks his head makes Luke suspect he’d been distracted, and Luke grins at the thought. 

Excitement flickers in Luke’s chest, and he guides Din around to the backyard. Under the warm rays of sunlight, the garden thrives. It’s a variety of things: some saplings, a few budding bushes, and vines crawling up the wall of Din’s house. Luke honestly should’ve thought to clarify if Din minded his space becoming invaded with local fauna, but he honestly got a little carried away. 

Din stares, persistently difficult to gauge. His helmet moves as he surveys the display in front of him, until his curiosity wins out. Stepping forward, he reaches out with a gloved hand, and his fingertips trace the edge of one flowering branch. 

“You did this?” he affirms, unable to shake the disbelief, making Luke smile.

“We both did,” he explains, nodding to the baby in Din’s arms. “We were busy while you were away.” 

Din bows his head, looking at the Child who coos sweetly up at him. Adjusting his hold to be a little more snug, he’s quiet -- contemplating, and he looks at Luke.

“Were you going to tell me you could do that?” he asks. 

Luke offers him a grin. “I’m just as shocked as you are,” he explains coyly.

With a sigh that moves his entire body, Din tilts his helmet up. Luke notices that habit more and more: like he’s expecting some sort of guidance from the sky above him. 

“I don’t know what to do with you,” Din tells him bluntly. 

Blinking, Luke tries to laugh, but the sound doesn’t linger. The smile flickers in the corners of his mouth as he tilts his head -- as if looking at Din from a new angle will help him understand more. 

“Is it that bad?” Luke asks, though he’s not certain he’ll like the answer to it. 

“No,” Din sighs, as if in defeat. “Just the opposite.”

\--

While Din is occupied, Luke figures he should make good on his hard-won victory and return to training. He is a little ashamed to show his face after last night… but somehow _not_ showing himself would actually be worse. He steps inside, miraculously on time, and Vizsla’s greeting comes with a laugh.

“ _Su cuy'gar,_ ” Vizsla says, and Luke immediately knows the phrase is meant in its most literal translation. 

_You're still alive._

Luke can’t resist smirking. “ _Dul_ ,” Luke teases back, though the headache is practically nonexistent at this point. 

After changing his clothes, he starts to fall in line with the other students -- only for Vizsla to coax him forward with a gesture of his hand. Luke frowns, and he wonders if he celebrated prematurely; he thought they were past Vizsla signaling him out. 

“Something wrong?” Luke asks, innocently enough, and Vizsla scoffs. 

“No,” Vizsla replies simply. “But you’re training with me, Jedi.” 

Luke chews the inside of his cheek, considering, and he follows Vizsla up to the padded floor regardless. “Luke,” he corrects, just a bit tiredly, but he doesn’t linger on it. “Why am I with you?”

“Because I want you to be,” Vizsla offers simply, and Luke’s stare must be something to behold.

“It’s been too long since I’ve been given a real challenge,” Vizsla continues. “You’re here. You can fight -- and I still think you were holding back.” 

Maybe. Luke supposes, in the most brutal definition of his powers, he could’ve done worse -- but that’s never the point. There’s always the potential to use the Force for something bolder, something more dangerous… but that path leads nowhere. While Luke is wary about some Jedi teachings, the notion of egotism and a thirst for power becoming a steady path to Darkness are a sentiment he can understand entirely.

Explaining that to a Mandalorian, however, is likely not an easy task. 

Instead of lingering on that, Luke picks up his weapon, and taunts Vizsla good-naturedly. “If that’s true, and I still won,” he points out. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want me to hold back?” 

Even with the helmet, Luke is entirely convinced that Vizsla smirks at him. 

\--

It’s reaching the early evening when he returns to Din’s house. Luke wasn’t sure how long he would be occupied with the new arrivals, but there’s a light on in the window that lets him know he’s home. Heaving a breath, Luke knocks, folding his arms into the sleeves of his robes while he waits. It’s strange to feel uneasy here again, as if he hasn’t been treating this place as his home for several weeks, but Din’s return brings a whole new realm of uncertainty back within these walls. 

Din opens the door, and coaxes him inside with a tilt of his helmet. “How was training?” he asks, and the question actually sounds rehearsed rather than its usual teasing. 

Luke actually thinks about his answer for a moment, sliding his boots off to leave them in the entryway. “Interesting,” Luke replies at length, offering Din a smirk. “I think Vizsla is using me to prepare for anti-Jedi combat specifically. Trying to learn all my tricks. Pretty clever of him, all things considered.”

“Is it?” Din asks dryly. “When you’re the only one left to fight?” 

He has a point. Luke shrugs. “I’m not going to question him,” he says, “Not when I’m finally on his good side.” Luke hesitates before he adds. “I think.”

Din gives a small shake of his helmet. “I wouldn’t even say I’m on his good side,” he notes dully, wandering deeper into the house, and Luke arches a brow at him as he follows.

“You’re his leader,” Luke objects.

“Yeah,” sighs Din, “That’s part of the problem.” 

Luke doesn’t pry right away, allowing himself to be led to the table. Din pulls his chair out for him, and Luke wonders how much of the courtesy is unconscious or deliberate. As he settles in across from him, Din leans back in his chair, and he elaborates. 

“The Darksaber belonged to Vizsla’s clan,” Din explains. “His ancestor created it, and years later, when his descendants reclaimed it from the Jedi Temple, it became a symbol of leadership on Mandalore.”

Luke pauses, and his face slowly lights up with understanding as the implication settles in. “He was a Jedi?” 

“The first Mandalorian to be one,” Din affirms, and Luke folds his arms over his chest with a scoff. 

“Vizsla’s a hypocrite then,” Luke accuses, though he lacks any sincere spite, too excited by the revelation. As a thought connects, he leans forward. “Is Paz a direct descendant, or was he a Foundling?” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Din counters simply, his tone clearly indicating that he thinks Luke should know better. 

Which he does. “Right,” Luke says patiently. “ _Aliit ori'shya tal'din._ " He pointedly ignores Din’s visible tension at Luke’s butchering of the phrase. “But sometimes a connection to the Force follows bloodlines; he could have the same power as his ancestors -- he just might not know it.” 

Din tilts his head, and even without his face, Luke can hear him smirking. “Why don’t you ask Vizsla yourself?” Din challenges. 

Unlikely. Luke has a very good feeling that a question like _that_ would surely send them back to square one -- to say the least. Luke lets it go, though the information makes a difference: there wasn’t always rivalry between their causes; the very symbol of Mandalorian leadership is proof of that. 

There was at least one Mandalorian Jedi, once upon a time... why couldn’t there be more?

Watching Din thoughtfully, Luke returns to the other piece of their conversation. “I think you’re a good leader,” Luke tells him firmly. 

Din doesn’t immediately reply, tapping a fingertip on the table as he considers his words. “After the purge, my tribe went into hiding,” he explains. “We only came to the surface one at a time, to hide our numbers and protect ourselves from those who would snuff us out. I was chosen to be our face, and I provided for my people.”

Luke smiles faintly, the expression lingering in the corner of his lips. “I can see why they chose you.”

“It was a great honour,” Din says, not acknowledging the praise -- either humble or too uncertain of how to reply to it, Luke isn’t quite sure. “And it’s an honour to be Mand’alor.” 

_But_. Luke feels the unspoken notion lingering on the edge of Din’s voice. Luke tilts his head, his eyes narrowing a little as he glances at him. He could focus more, and try to puzzle out what’s come over him, but he settles for the easier solution.

“What’s bothering you?” he asks outright. 

Din exhales heavily, leaning his arms forward on the table, and his voice stays soft. “You.”

Luke has to appreciate the honesty. Din doesn’t say it like an accusation, which is some relief, but it still leaves Luke uneasy. 

“You being here,” he continues, “It means more than you realize. Not just because of the Jedi, but because of the New Republic.” 

Wincing, Luke has to admit the worry isn’t unjustified. “I understand the concern,” he says, “But Leia is very good at what she does; you can trust her to be impartial.”

Humming, Din taps his fingers again. “That’s not what I mean,” he objects. 

“Mandalore has to trust _me_ to be impartial,” he says quietly, “While knowing about the two of us.” 

Oh. Luke’s shoulders slump. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Luke has been so preoccupied about sorting out Din’s feelings, he hasn’t considered the real repercussions of what they’ve fallen into here. Din is not only involving himself with an outsider, but an outsider who is a Jedi and deeply connected to a Republic that has never fully aligned to their favour. 

But, that begs a more direct question. Luke rests his hands on the table, threading his fingers together as he watches Din.

“What is this then?” Luke asks, honest and curious, rather than expectant. “Between the two of us?” Then, after a moment, he rephrases: “What would you like it to be?” 

Din bends his head, and Luke is keenly aware that he’s avoiding his gaze. Luke waits, and as Din visibly stews without reply, he pushes a little further. “I don’t know what I can ask for,” Luke tells him simply, just a little entreating. “I don’t know what’s allowed.”

Tentatively, Din nods his head, and he finds his voice. “Relationships between Mandalorians and _aruetiise_ are allowed,” he begins. “But it’s not the same as being clan.”

So Luke still won’t be able to see his face. Tensing his jaw briefly, Luke nods, and he taps his thumbs together. Does it matter to him that much? Letting the barrier interfere at this point simply feels selfish. Luke has spent too long in their culture, and grown to familiar with what the old Creed means to Mandalorians like Din. Honestly, he’s spent this long with him... Luke is almost accustomed to the absence, finding fondness in the smaller gestures he makes instead, or the sound of his voice.

It’s almost a comforting attraction: something entirely unique and removed from his appearance. Even when this union _feels_ like some impassioned impulse, Luke knows better -- since it’s something in the core of Din that drew Luke in, despite the unfeeling barrier of his armour. 

Sitting here across from Din at his kitchen table, Luke realizes that he’s never felt that way about anyone before.

Which makes him wonder.

“Have you done this before?” he can’t help asking. “With another Mandalorian or...an outsider?” 

Feeling abruptly like he’s put Din on the spot, he continues: “I haven’t,” he admits, since Din might have an easier time after Luke’s aired his own uneventful history. “I’ve been _with_ people before, you know, but I’ve never... had a real relationship.”

Tatooine was dull, limited and too small to do much more than fool around, and any other Rebellion pilots that took a shine to him were only in one place for a week at best before they were assigned to somewhere new. Luke never really felt mournful about it, since even those short encounters were really more of a mutual outlet than any real lost connection... but it does leave Luke wondering how naive he may or may not sound. 

Din watches him, maybe wondering, and Luke feels oddly exposed as he stays silent. Din keeps him waiting, lingering before he gives a small shake of his head. “About the same,” he replies vaguely, but Luke can work with that.

Din lets that settle for a moment, before he continues. “What about you?” he counters curiously. “What’s expected of you?” 

Wincing, Luke watches his hands rather than look at Din. “Jedi aren’t supposed to have attachments,” Luke says quietly. “Because of the risk. The emotion involved is dangerous, and lends itself to selfishness -- which lends itself to darkness.” 

“Like your father?” 

Luke glances up to find Din watching him, and the sentiment behind his question is hard to parse. While it’s often difficult to decipher what Din’s feeling, he is transparent about a few things -- one of which being that his opinion of Anakin Skywalker is very poor, and Luke can’t seem to sway him otherwise. Ever since learning about Luke’s hand, Din tenses at the slightest reference to him, and Luke tries to navigate it as much as possible when they discuss the Force.

Luke can’t exactly blame him.

“You’re not like him,” Din says, with perhaps a misplaced confidence, but the sentiment still sits heavy on Luke’s shoulders, causing them to slump. 

“I think that I am,” Luke argues, with a defeated sort of grin. 

Because, realistically, when he thinks about it… what would he do to protect Din? What would he do to protect the Child? It’s too grim to follow through. Luke is getting ahead of himself. Closing his eyes, he heaves a careful breath, letting it out slowly. 

“I already told you that I don’t want to follow an archaic path,” he reminds, his voice steady and assured. “I meant that. Following my heart has been my strength more than it’s been my enemy, and it’s led me here -- to you.”

Where it sits against the table, Din’s hand forms a fist. Luke thinks for a moment, collecting himself, and he watches Din evenly as he speaks.

“I want to try,” Luke tells him firmly, squeezing his hands together. “I don’t want to put you in a difficult position, and I know it’s asking a lot of you. With who I am. I know I’m an outsider. But...”

He trails off, trying to find some sort of hint in the visor across from him. There’s that thread of affection still, wrapped around them and still so obviously, deliberately restrained, as if Din isn’t sure what else to do with it but keep it tightly wound.

“You aren’t an outsider _,_ ” Din says finally, and Luke blinks, feeling as though he’s missed whatever train of thought Din was following. “You’ll swear the Creed soon; you’ve gone above what anyone here has asked of you. Jedi, ally to the Republic... with or without me, you’re one of us and those things as well.”

Luke's chest twists. Rising to his feet, he crosses to the other side of the table. Din stays seated, his helmet tipping back as he gazes up at him, and Luke gently squeezes down on his shoulders. 

“I’d rather it be with you,” Luke implores softly. 

Din’s exhale is audible if a little unsteady, and he circles Luke’s wrists in his hands. 

“So would I.”

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So give me something else instead,” Luke reasons, squeezing down around Din’s wrist. “Tell me something. Tell me whatever you want. You’re always so quiet... give me your voice instead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mess around with canon events/timelines for this chapter, with no explanation other than it's my fic and I do what I want.
> 
> I want to apologize for not getting to comments on the previous chapter yet, but I will! I'm balancing studying for a registration exam along with writing this. I appreciate all the feedback! It means a lot to me.

With the looming threat of Din’s absence gone for the time being, and the air clearer than when he left, the routine that Luke settles into is both new and familiar. 

Luke continues to teach -- proven correct that the Child learning to defy gravity has cost his father a good night’s sleep more than once -- and Din allows him to keep adding to the garden. He’s permanently seated at Din’s side at dinners, and with the helmet preventing him from partaking, Din’s unoccupied hand often finds its way to Luke’s knee and warmly lingers. 

While he can’t bring himself to stay overnight, knowing it would rob Din of the momentary freedom from his armour, Luke stays late into the evening regardless. After all this time, Luke never fully realized how sorely he lacked the simple indulgence of being able to talk to someone -- truly and openly -- about even the smallest thing.

It doesn’t start out that way. There’s a few stiff, uncertain interactions, but they warm quickly enough. Din is still withdrawn, although Luke is beginning to think that a lot of that is uncertainty rather than gruffness, a lack of knowing _how_ to be vulnerable, rather than a lack of wanting, and he patiently pushes.

As it turns out, the easiest way to get him to open up seems to be by starting a little further out, with his work. Luke knows that long before the Child and the Darksaber, Din had quite the reputation as a bounty hunter, and Din seems to take to the topic easily enough -- maybe a little nostalgic for simpler days. For Luke’s part, it’s hard to get tired of hearing him talk about it: even with Din’s modesty in recounting them, the stories paint quite the picture of his life as a lone gun.

“Hold on,” Luke laughs, shaking his hair out with a laugh. They’re seated on the couch, and Luke has indulgently draped his legs over Din’s lap. Tilting his head back, he grins widely at him, eyebrows raised. “You turned down twins? _Twi’lek_ twins?” 

“That... was not the point of what I was telling you,” Din points out, and Luke can’t help but wonder if he’s frowning or if his face is flushed behind the visor. “Besides, the offer wasn’t as tempting as it sounds,” he argues flatly, his palm resting lightly on Luke’s leg. “They weren’t my type.” 

“Well, you’re with a twin now,” Luke points out teasingly. “Seems like maybe you _do_ have a type.” 

Din scoffs, but his thumb rolls back and forth over Luke’s calf, distinctly fond. “I don’t think so. But since you seem to know so much about it, what’s yours?” His helmet tilts, distinctly scrutinizing, tentatively playful, like he has to roll the words around in his mouth before he can express them. “What’s your... type?”

“I feel like I don’t have one,” Luke replies honestly, giving an easy shrug, and when Din scoffs again, he emphasizes: “I really don’t. What? Did you expect me to say I like men in armour? It’s not like I’d met any Mandalorians before you.”

“You met Boba Fett,” Din reminds, and Luke cringes a little at the memory of his own drunken rambling. 

“Barely,” Luke insists. A very distant glance at Fett in Cloud City followed by an equally brief encounter on Tatooine hardly seems worth remarking on. Din seems oddly hung up on the idea, though. It must have been lingering on him if that’s what he remembers from what was surely a string of intoxicated nonsense. Luke’s smile spreads as he leans forward, propping an elbow on the back of the couch to peer at him. “What? Are you worried about Boba Fett?” 

“Very funny.” 

“I promise he was more interested in Han than me,” Luke replies coolly, thinking about that for a moment. “Han likes to get himself in trouble -- so it’s a good thing he can get himself out of it, when he needs to.”

Luke muses on that for a moment, and guilt edges in. It’s been easier to ask to speak to Leia, since she’s generally in one place and it’s expected that he’d miss his sister. He hasn’t tried to contact Han, and the easy excuse is that he’s hard to keep track of. The more honest excuse is that he feels a little embarrassed to reach out; Han really isn’t the type to trade sentiments over long distance. 

But it has been a long time, and Luke’s missed him.

“He’s gotten me out of trouble more times than I can count too,” Luke continues, his gaze unfocused as his memory drifts. “When he ran into Fett, that was one of the few times _I_ got to save _him_.” 

The hand on Luke’s calf squeezes: a gesture that Luke isn’t sure Din is fully conscious of, and it draws his attention back. 

Din’s focus is trained on Luke, utterly unmoving, and realization clicks in the back of Luke’s mind. Luke’s teasing now seems appropriately on point, rather than a playful jab. “It’s not like that,” he promises, reaching out to touch the edge of Din’s helmet with his fingertips.

Din lets out a metallic hum, and he’s quiet for a moment before he speaks. “Is he good looking?” 

Luke laughs, shaking his head from side-to-side. “Not as good looking as you,” he promises. 

“Mh,” Din intones, “you don’t know that.”

Luke pauses, just briefly, unable to tell if the statement is playful in nature or defensive. Tilting his head, he tries to focus on Din, but he remains frustratingly difficult to read. 

“Sure I do,” Luke insists stubbornly, and Din huffs out a laugh that shatters the tension built between them. 

It goes on like that. He keeps learning the language, now with enough confidence to upgrade his classes into full immersion. They spend more time together, Din always managing to find him during his brief moments of freedom from duty during the day. He trains, and when Luke manages to get the upper-hand, Vizsla pauses and has Luke demonstrate the technique that bested him. Oftentimes if he isn’t in a meeting, or embroiled with some task, Luke will find Din lingering quietly outside the training ring, waiting to walk him home. Afterward, rather than immediately take the long walk back to his own house, he stops at Din’s and stays for food. 

“Does it bother you?” Luke asks eventually, unable to keep quiet about it. There’s just a certain inherent unease with the frequency of sitting at Din’s table, eating in front of him, when Din isn’t permitted to indulge a similar comfort. 

“Does it bother _you_?” Din counters, leaning his forearm on the table, and Luke immediately shakes his head.

He wonders how often Din encounters that sentiment. Among his own people, there’s likely very little tension, but his years spent as a bounty hunter surely meant dealing with all sorts of races and ideologies that were far less understanding. Maybe it _should_ bother Luke more that he can’t see Din’s face, or engage in something as small as sharing a meal with him… but it seems unfairly cruel to long for something he can’t ask Din to give. 

It isn’t until after, when he’s clearing his plate, that he realizes Din dodged the question… and with a twist in his chest, Luke wonders how often the restrictions of his Creed actually leave Din yearning. 

He can’t help repeating it in his mind, the soft correction when he asked about Han: _you don’t know that._

Din always acts so stoic: confident and assured of his ways… but it must weigh on him. Luke only questioned him about it once, and since Din became defensive, he hasn’t dared overstep again. 

The longer they go on like this, the more the thought has time to dig in and settle roots. They’re spending more time together than apart now, and most nights Luke is bleary eyed by the time he passes the threshold to his own house. Sometimes as he settles into his own empty bed, the urge to pry the next time he sees Din almost burns his tongue.

Is it as lonely as it seems? Does he wish for those little moments the way Luke doesn’t dare let himself? Does it ache?

He doesn’t ask; he keeps the questions tucked behind his teeth, but he looks at Din and he wonders all the same. 

\--

Luke would expect that growing closer to Din would mean being more involved, more easily called on, but instead he’s realizing that only the opposite seems true. With an increasing frequency, Din gets drawn away for meetings, or relayed crucial bits of information in a tone too hushed for Luke to hear. It’s misplaced, probably, but Luke doesn’t like the feeling he gets whenever Din excuses himself, only to return with no explanation of what required him so urgently. 

It may not be his place to pursue it. Luke knows Din worries about how the two of them seem; how Luke’s presence, with his connections to the Jedi -- and more relevantly, the New Republic -- could make Din seem either soft or compromised. Luke is generally well liked by the people here, but those few who already have doubts about their ruler would eagerly take an excuse to call him weak. 

No society is perfect; even after everything Din accomplished, there will still be Mandalorians who don’t consider him worthy of his title. Luke hates the idea that he might be adding to that prejudice simply by being here. Keeping Luke out of politics is probably a good idea for both of their sakes, but it simply doesn’t feel right, and Luke can’t help but wonder.

“What was that about?” Luke asks casually, the way he always does, and Din barely looks at him. 

“Nothing to concern yourself with,” Din replies, not patronizing but reassuring… or trying to be. Luke frowns and this time he presses.

“Are you sure?” he insists, giving Din a casual bump shoulder-to-shoulder. “Nothing you need an extra pilot for? One with a very unique set of skills? The kind you won’t find anywhere else in the galaxy?” 

He phrases it like a tease, hoping that will make Din more keen to tell him something. Instead, he just shakes his head.

“Don’t act cocky,” he chides. 

“It’s just a thought,” Luke offers, more earnestly now. “I can help, you know.”

“You do help,” Din corrects simply, and Luke doesn’t push again. 

He’s not wrong, but it’s not wholly the truth either. Din encourages his training with the Child. He seems more than pleased every time Luke joins in with a repair initiative somewhere in the city, and he’s allowed him to spread his newfound skill with greenery beyond just the backyard… but those are all very passive things for him to be doing.

Things that keep him safe. 

With a sudden understanding, Luke’s shoulders slump, but he holds his tongue.

\--

When he crosses Din’s doorstep tonight, Luke tries his best to keep his posture straight, but he’s sure he’s failing miserably. While being free of Vizsla’s grudge is certainly a blessing, Vizsla’s enthusiastic friendship is almost just as dangerous. It’s never with any ill-intent, but at some point today Luke hit the mats _just_ the right way, and his shoulder has been complaining ever since.

Which is fine. It comes with any sort of training, and it’s not like Luke’s in agony. Aches and pain come with the territory, and it’ll surely resolve itself soon. When he rolls it, he hears an audible crunch, but no amount of stretching seems to ease the tightness there. 

Luke figured he could play it off, but he barely makes it two steps inside before Din is onto him. Instead of greeting him, Din says nothing at all: tilting his head and glancing him up and down. 

“I’m fine,” Luke tells him outright, before he can even ask. “Nothing happened; I’m just sore.” 

Which is all very well to say, except then he proceeds to take his boots off -- and he winces as his shoulder protests with an ache that throbs all the way down his back. He’s graceless about it, his face screwing up in obvious strain as he straightens up again, and Din shakes his head from side to side. 

“Come here,” Din says, gesturing forward with his hand, “Let me see it.” 

“I’m really fine,” Luke insists, though he winces when he pulls off his cloak. “It’s not a big deal.” 

Din approaches him, one gloved hand squeezing down on Luke’s shoulder, and Luke’s whole expression pinches in pain. His muscles flare up, the ache following all along his spine as Din rubs the delicate space above his collarbone. 

“How long has this been building up?” Din mutters, and Luke tries to shrug -- but the motion just adds more strain under Din’s hand. 

“Since before I got here, probably,” Luke admits, and Din’s helmet tilts as he regards him -- distinctly scrutinizing. He considers Luke for a moment, unreadable behind the Beskar, before he speaks again. 

“Come on,” he coaxes, stepping away and clearly expecting Luke to follow. He leads them to the bedroom, likely just for the amount of open space, since he gestures to the floor. “Take your shirt off and sit. I’ll be right back.” 

Ah.

Luke can’t help how his stomach flops at the command. Stupid, really, given the circumstance being more practical than deliberately intimate, but his skin feels warm regardless. 

Even with he and Din committing to a relationship, they haven’t actually repeated anything as fevered and intense as that one night they trained together. It isn’t for lack of wanting to, but both of them keep stopping just short of touching each other with intent. Luke isn’t sure what Din is thinking on his side -- an ongoing torment -- but for his own part, he honestly isn’t sure how much he’s allowed to ask for, or if Din has already given more than he should.

The way Din had talked about relationships before didn’t exactly lend itself to the idea of what they’re doing here... this slow, careful, nameless thing. Really, Luke’s only frame of reference is Cara, who apparently married herself off almost immediately. He isn’t sure he’s strong enough to withstand the embarrassment of asking her the specifics of that timeline, with regards to intimacy. 

He’s getting carried away, really, thinking too hard as he sits shirtless and cross-legged so close to Din’s bed. The house always seems just a little cold, which doesn’t help -- but it’s probably a necessity when Din spends so much time in his armour. 

Speaking of that…

Luke realizes that as much as he feels tormented by Din’s armour, Din actually hasn’t seen much of Luke’s body either. Din touched under his clothes, while keeping most of it more-or-less in place, and Luke isn’t necessarily shy… but he’s certainly a sight to lay eyes on with his shirt off. 

Din only affirms that thought when he rejoins him, stopping rigidly in the bedroom doorway. 

“What happened to you?” 

Din’s voice is simultaneously soft and sharp at the same time: an impossible contradiction made from terrible adoration and furious, defensive anger. He spoke to Luke like that once already, when he learned about his hand… and Luke has a feeling he won’t like the story behind these scars either. 

Across his chest, following the curve of his ribs to climb up along his back, a series of harsh scars creep over his skin: they almost look like the roots of a plant, crawling in a jagged path, stark white against his pale skin. 

Sighing, Luke cranes his head to look up at Din as he speaks. “Force lightning,” he explains, grinning a bit self-consciously. “It’s… not really a technique the Jedi approved of, so we haven’t talked about it yet.”

Din lingers, just watching him for a moment, and his voice is quiet when he clarifies. “The Emperor?” 

Luke wonders if he should feel lucky that Din didn’t just assume that his father was responsible for this as well. Nodding stiffly, he affirms. “That’s right.” 

He almost continues the rest of the story, but he’s told Din once before -- he’s one of the precious few who actually know what happened that day, and now among the even fewer who have actually seen his scars. They don’t give Luke any real discomfort, save for the grave memory of what they represent. 

Luke pushes the thought down, and he’s relieved that Din doesn’t see fit to pursue it any further right away. Soon enough, Din settles in behind him, and when he touches Luke’s shoulder again, his hands are bare, slicked with some warm oil that smells clean and leaves his muscles feeling looser.

Abruptly, Luke’s pulse quickens. Even compared to when he’s been allowed to see Din’s hands before, this seems somehow more exposed. Din is seeing more of him, _touching_ more of him, and Luke’s mouth feels dry. It certainly doesn’t help ease the heat building under Luke’s skin -- although thankfully it’s hard to get too carried away when Din digs his thumbs down at the base of Luke’s neck, finding built-up tension that practically throbs under even gentle pressure. 

“Shit,” Luke utters with a surprised wince, his head hanging defeatedly under Din’s touch. Din just hums knowingly, slowly mapping out Luke’s back with his hands. 

“Your shoulders are a mess,” he concludes, tracing the curve of his shoulder-blade. “Comes from carrying the weight of the universe, huh?” 

“Don’t -- _ow_ \-- tease me,” Luke says, pausing to wince in between. “It’s usually fine. Training just… roughed me up a little today.“

Din sounds far from convinced. “I thought Vizsla was taking it easy on you now,” Din remarks, and Luke’s head snaps up.

“Why? Did you tell him to do that?” Luke accuses over his shoulder, and Din quickly gives a shake of his head.

“It was a joke,” he clarifies bluntly, though he seems to muse on that for a moment before he adds thoughtfully: “No, I didn’t do that. He does talk a lot about you, though.” 

“That doesn’t seem right,” Luke replies skeptically. 

“He does,” Din insists, though he sounds shocked enough himself. “Even before you fought, he noticed you making an effort while I was gone. You fit yourself in. You never got discouraged; it made an impression on him.” 

Huh. There’s quite a lot to unpack there, but stupidly, Luke focuses on a whole other opportunity that presents itself: “Jealous?” Luke taunts, and Din’s thumb digs into a knot in Luke’s shoulder like a reprimand. Luke cringes but laughs a little at the same time.

“I learned about that in class,” Luke persists, determined to draw out the tease for as long as he can. Someone like Din has probably never been teased in his life, and he’s likely overdue. “That some Mandalorians would only marry someone who could best them in combat.” 

“If you want to keep talking like that, then you can ask Vizsla to rub your back,” Din counters coolly, pausing just long enough to add more oil to his hands before he gets right back to work again. 

Given Vizsla’s overpowering approach to literally everything, Luke isn’t sure he would actually survive the encounter. Luke almost says as much, but Din keeps speaking, and it’s more thoughtful than his previous jibes: “Really, couldn’t you just take care of this yourself anyway?” 

Huh? Luke glances over his shoulder at Din, arching a brow. “How do you see that working out?” Luke asks, unable to help grinning. 

“I meant your powers,” Din corrects, as if Luke is being purposefully dense, and Luke’s smug expression falters. 

It’s not a technique that Luke has done much more than glance at in his handbook. The fact that Din references it isn’t what gives Luke pause, or even that he expects Luke to just whip out the ability on a whim for everyday aches and pains. Instead it’s the implication that Din only knows about it to begin with because -- at some point -- the Child has done it. 

When will Luke stop being surprised? 

“Maybe this is nicer,” Luke reasons simply, rather than linger too long on that thought. Din’s hands momentarily pause, and emboldened, Luke continues: “Maybe I like having you touch me.” 

It takes a bit for Din to start back up again, though his hands are more soothing than trying to work away the knots now. “I like touching you,” Din offers quietly, the words sitting warmly in the pit of Luke’s stomach.

Good. Luke smiles, his next exhale deep and satisfied. “This is better than talking about the Force,” he teases, which makes Din scoff. 

Even as Luke says it, Din circles back again, though there’s an obvious reluctance in his voice. “Hope you’re not too sick of that, since I still don’t understand all of it,” he admits in an undertone. “I don’t know if I ever will.”

“Then ask me,” Luke invites, his tone soft and utterly sincere. “What do you want to know?” 

Din doesn’t answer right away. He keeps touching Luke, palms rubbing along either side of his spine, and Luke gets the feeling that he’s choosing where to start carefully.

“Have you ever used it yourself?” Din relents eventually, his fingers tracing the scars on Luke’s back. “Force lightning?” 

Luke shakes his head, his face pinching as Din finds a knot, and his gentle touch turns to work away at it instead. “The Jedi called it Electric Judgment,” he explains, “But it’s seen as an ability tied inherently to the Dark Side, since it usually comes from anger.”

“And you’re just supposed to never get angry?” Din questions skeptically, and Luke chuckles a little -- as much as he can when Din goes back to putting pressure on all his old aches and pains. 

“Ideally,” he replies dryly. “I’m not going to start shooting off sparks when I’m upset; it doesn’t work like that.” 

“I wouldn’t know,” reasons Din flatly. “I’ve never really seen you be upset.”

Din states it matter-of-factly, and Luke has to wonder… he supposes that’s true, isn’t it? As much as Luke tries to be conscious of the teachings, he knows he’s deeply tied to his own emotions. He’s certainly felt levels of desperation here, frustration and concern… but Din is right; Luke has never really been _overly_ upset. Even when his hand was broken, he was mostly too distracted by pain and by Din stepping in for there to be any space for anger, or resentment. 

As a whole, his time here has been peaceful, and his moods have matched. And while Din is attributing it to his Jedi training, Luke honestly feels like it has more to do with how content he’s been since he’s arrived.

Din goes quiet again, though the tension ebbing off of him is tangible. Luke waits, wondering, and still he doesn’t expect the question he gets. 

“Can you read minds?” Din asks, painfully self-conscious, and Luke can’t help feeling endeared.

Luke almost laughs, but he doesn’t -- it would seem too cruel, rather than good-natured. “No,” Luke answers him easily. “Not generally. Some Jedi could. I’ve only called out to my sister that way when I really needed her, and my father once. I guess it’s easier with family. If I wanted to use it more, it’s something I could master, but it feels… invasive to pry.

“But I can sense feelings,” Luke offers. “It’s hard not to, sometimes.” 

From where he sits behind him, Din holds his tongue. Given how his hands continue in a slow, steady sweep of Luke’s back, he isn’t _utterly_ uncomfortable with the idea, but his lack of response is decidedly a little uneasy. The unspoken question is almost tangible, and Luke breaks the silence.

“I’ve never read your thoughts,” Luke assures him. “And half the time, I don’t even know what you’re feeling.” Glancing over his shoulder, Luke grins. “It’s honestly kind of frustrating.” 

Din’s touch finally slows a little. He rests his hands on Luke’s shoulders, his thumbs rubbing idly against Luke’s neck. “Is it?” 

All at once, Luke realizes where this conversation is going. Shoulders -- now considerably looser -- slumping, Luke sighs. 

Din is trying to figure out what Luke sees in him, isn’t he? Since, in Din’s perspective, he isn’t offering Luke much: hidden behind his armour and relatively guarded with his words. He wants to know if Luke is filling in the gaps with glances into his mind, since maybe then he’ll feel less like he’s taking advantage. 

Circling Din’s wrist in his hand, Luke pulls his hand forward and presses his mouth to his palm. His skin is smoother than he expects, and the oil lingering on his skin leaves Luke’s lips warm. Behind him, Din lets out a shuddering sound, and his helmet sinks against Luke’s shoulder with a sense of defeat. 

The hand not in Luke’s hold wanders, reaching around to slide down the smooth plane of Luke’s chest. It’s a slow, sure thing, his palm sliding all the way down to his navel, and on the way back up his blunt nails graze Luke’s skin. It’s certainly not enough for discomfort, but the implication is there: frustration bleeding in and making him desperate. He pushes forward, just a little, and Luke feels the warm press of Beskar against his back. 

“I… like touching you,” Din reiterates weakly, as if the confession is a personal sort of agony. “And I can’t give you the same thing.”

With an undeniable significance, his fingers lay gently over Luke’s lips, lingering only for an instant before lowering to form a fist instead. Frustration seems to burn off of him, and Din exhales shakily. Even muffled by his helmet, the sound is ragged, breaking out of his chest with an undefinable torment. 

“I can’t--”

Din leaves the thought unfinished, but the intention is more than clear. Luke sighs, leaning against Din’s chest, and he draws his hand back up again. Even as he deliberately places his mouth against every worn knuckle in a slow, lingering kiss, he knows it won’t feel like enough. 

It won’t make up for the simple fact that the two of them can’t kiss.

Luke feels struck by his own skewed perspective. He keeps thinking about how much Din is giving him, but it must seem equally unbalanced from the other side. Luke came here, dedicated himself to learning the Mandalorian Creed, vowed to teach Din everything he knew, and took care of his son without flinching. Din, with his quiet demeanour, with the hard barrier of his armor, with the secrecy he keeps for the protection of his people… does he think he’s taking advantage of _Luke’s_ kindness?

“So give me something else instead,” Luke reasons, squeezing down around Din’s wrist. When the request comes he can’t help but feel hopelessly indulgent, but it’s easier without seeing Din’s face -- or the visage that covers it, anyways. “Tell me something. Tell me whatever you want. You’re always so quiet... give me your voice instead.”

Din doesn’t take him up on the offer right away. He holds his tongue, his hand lowering to trace idle patterns over Luke’s chest, and Luke waits patiently as Din summons up his voice. 

“The Mandalorians took me in, after my home was attacked,” Din begins carefully. Luke knows this part of the story, but not what follows. “Mandalore was still in turmoil in those days; divided, and not an ideal place to start a family. It happens often enough: Foundlings are taken in but no true parents adopt them as their own, so they’re raised in the community instead. I was taken care of, trained in the Fighting Corps, and when I came of age I swore to the Creed.

“When I was young, no one claimed me,” he utters quietly, “But when I met the Child, I claimed him and I…”

Din cuts himself off, as if he’s gotten ahead of himself and needs to reconsider his phrasing. He huffs a frustrated breath, his helmet nudging against Luke’s hair. 

“When you arrived here, I was afraid,” he confesses, the weight of it sinking in the pit of Luke’s stomach. “Not just because I thought you’d take him from me. I thought, maybe, it would mean… that it wouldn’t matter either way, and that the first family that’s been truly mine would no longer belong to me.” 

Luke wets his lips, his heart hammering under Din’s wandering hand, and his posture stiffens. “I didn’t want you here,” Din utters quietly, “Now I can’t imagine what it would be like if you go.”

“Din--” Luke tries to look at him, but Din’s arms tighten around his middle, keeping his body tight against his chest. 

“You look at things differently,” Din says, as if Luke didn’t try to interrupt him. “You’ve been learning our ways, helping us in return, and it’s made me… realize how different things could be.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he finishes, as he loosens his grip on Luke, “And I’m grateful you watched over him while I was gone.” 

Luke simply stays where he is for a moment, his pulse rushing in his ears, and he squeezes Din’s hands under his own. 

“I’m grateful you trusted me with him,” Luke answers, and he chooses his words carefully as he continues: “But I don’t want you to think that’s all I’m here for.” 

Twisting in Din’s grip, Luke turns around to face him fully. “I came here to teach him, but I’m not always going to stay here and watch him whenever you have a call to arms,” Luke tells him sternly. “I understand certain things require discretion, but it isn’t fair to keep me in the dark. Next time something happens, I’m coming with you. I can help you, and I _will_ help you, whether you agree to it or not.” 

At first, Din merely looks at him, and Luke gazes back into his visor without flinching. After a moment, Din sighs, and his fingers trail over the scars on Luke’s chest, tracing them with obvious significance. 

“I want you to be safe,” he insists quietly.

“And that’s very noble of you,” Luke replies kindly, unwavering as he leans into his touch -- relishing as much as he can in the rare contact of his bare skin against his own. “But I can take care of myself -- and, if you’ll let me, I can even take care of you.”

Din’s shoulders sink, and he shakes his head from side to side. “There it is again,” he observes, his voice quiet if not a little forlorn.

Luke arches a brow at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks. 

“ _Dral_ ,” Din continues, his fingers touching the edge of Luke’s jaw, “It means bright, but it’s also the word for something strong; powerful.

“That’s what it feels like, most of the time,” Din concludes quietly, “Whenever I look at you.” 

Luke finds himself momentarily lost for words, not knowing what he could possibly say in response to something like that. To some relief, his stunned silence doesn’t hinder Din at all, since he continues speaking:

“You’re nothing like I thought you’d be,” Din continues slowly, his voice soft and uncharacteristically unsteady. “And nothing like anyone I’ve ever met before.”

There’s an unspoken significance in that: how Din, who’s traveled to so many dark, distant corners of the galaxy, worked with and for numerous people, and somehow Luke sticks out among them all. 

Smiling, Luke wraps his arms around Din’s shoulders. “You feel different too,” Luke finds his voice, tipping his head as he scrutinizes him. “You’re not like anyone else, but you feel… familiar; it’s like I recognized you, somehow.” 

Luke doesn’t know how else to describe it. There’s a strange, natural pull in the pit of his stomach whenever he looks at Din, like he’s drawn in by a unique gravity that exists only between the two of them. Grinning a little, Luke adds. “Sorry. Does that even make any sense?” 

Din sighs, although the sound of it is more relief than anything else, and Luke would like to think that he’s smiling. When he reaches out for his feelings, the despondence has melted away, replaced by something warmer and sweeter that radiates off of Din and seems to envelop Luke the same way his arms do.

“Yeah,” Din tells him softly, reverently brushing the hair away from Luke’s forehead. “It does.”

\--

“I have something I want to show you.” 

Din delivers the statement with specific emphasis, as if he’s working up his nerve before he speaks. Luke tilts his head as he watches him, his posture stiff where he stands outside Luke’s house. He came all this way to greet him in the morning, so he’s clearly determined, but at the same time… nervous? It’s unlike him to seem so unsure lately, and it brings a smile to Luke’s lips. 

“It’s a ways out,” Din explains. “It’ll take most of the morning.” 

“Well, I do have a busy schedule,” Luke taunts, and Din’s lack of even the barest scoff makes his anxiety abruptly apparent.

Maybe he shouldn’t be joking then. 

Luke glances Din up and down, stepping out to meet him and following where he’s lead. He expects Din to guide him back to town, but instead he simply walks a few paces around Luke’s house: showing him a landspeeder that’s much sleeker than any model he ever drove on Tatooine. 

Despite Din’s obvious tension, Luke feels a swell of excitement. He hasn’t actually been able to pilot _anything_ since he landed his X-Wing here, and honestly it’s left him with an undeniable longing. 

“Can I drive?” Luke asks eagerly. When Din nods his permission, Luke can’t help the huge grin that overtakes his face. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he takes a moment to examine the controls in front of him. This particular landspeeder, it seems, is of a Mandalorian design, given how everything is labelled in Mando’a rather than basic. 

Luckily, Luke can read all of it. 

Din settles in next to him. “Don’t get too carried away,” he cautions, since Luke must be vibrating with excitement. “I still have to navigate you.” 

Luke does get carried away, just a little. It shows when they’re about halfway along and Din’s hand braces very subtly on the edge of the door -- as if he expects to need something to hold onto when Luke’s enthusiasm inevitably sends them flying. 

It doesn’t. They arrive utterly unscathed, but Luke doesn’t even get the chance to tease Din about it -- too taken off guard by their destination.

It’s another domed city, but it’s barely standing. In its prime, it must’ve been beautiful, but now that glory is lost to scorched earth and rubble. Some of the larger buildings still tower above them, but even those show signs of damage, far beyond salvation. 

“Ruins of the purge,” Din explains, needlessly so, as he climbs from the landspeeder. “Stay close to me and watch your step.” 

Quieted by the sight before them, Luke obeys without question. Din guides them into the city, cautiously navigating through the rubble, and an ominous sensation fills Luke’s chest the further they wander.

The feeling isn’t a threat -- it isn’t even a warning. As he walks through the ruins, Luke knows there’s no danger of these buildings collapsing on them, no imminent threat hiding inside the cracked glass that arches above them. Instead it’s an echo; an old history of devastation still tangible as a ripple through the Force -- great fear, death and despair. 

It distracts Luke enough to almost be costly. His footing slips, some fallen piece of architecture refusing to bear his weight, but Din quickly grabs his arm to keep him upright. 

“You okay?” he asks, and Luke still feels preoccupied when he nods. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, glancing around them cautiously before he focuses on Din again. “Yes. Sorry. There’s…” Luke’s expression softens. “There’s a lot of pain here.” 

Din squeezes down on Luke’s arm, considering him for a moment, then his hand circles Luke’s wrist. Maybe it’s simply to guide him, or maybe it’s intimacy under the guise of a steadying hand -- but Luke is grateful for it either way. 

“Come on,” he coaxes.

The building Din leads him to is mostly stable. They pass through the entrance easily enough, but the corridors that follow are more demanding. Luke almost debates moving some rubble with the Force, but he can’t tell if one poor movement might send the whole place crashing down -- so he lets it be. There’s a few tight squeezes, and one short jump, before Din finally brings him to a door. 

“We’re here,” Din says, still guiding Luke along with his hand. “Watch your head.” 

Luke ducks under a half-fallen piece of ceiling, glancing at the sealed door with an arched brow. “Should I close my eyes?” he asks, and Din’s grip tightens ever-so-slightly on his wrist. 

“If you want.”

Din opens the door, and what lies beyond is… remarkably ordinary. It’s a living quarters, seeming simple enough, and only marginally damaged. One of the windows to the city beyond is shattered, and a piece of the floor opens down into the level below… but otherwise it seems mostly sound. 

But what catches Luke’s attention above all is the books: several of them filling up the far wall of the room, and a familiar sensation that creeps up the back of his neck.

“When we reclaimed Mandalore, we went through the ruins to salvage what we could,” Din explains, stepping deeper into the room. “This was the capital city, once, so resource wise it made sense to start here. And we found this.” 

Din approaches the shelves, selecting a book and wiping his gloved hand across the cover. “There was a Duchess who ruled Mandalore for a time,” he starts, and his voice distinctly lacks any of the fondness that’s coloured his storytelling in the past. “She’s not remembered kindly among our Tribe -- she wanted to change too much of what we were; of what Mandalore was.

“But others were sympathetic to her cause,” he continues, turning to Luke with an almost wary caution in his strides. “Several times, over the course of her life, she was protected by Jedi Knights. This is where one of them stayed, and it was kept like this long after he left.” 

Luke’s eyes widen, and he knows it before Din even finishes guiding the book into his hands. He _feels_ it, and his chest twists--

_Ben_. 

A disbelieving laugh bubbles up in Luke’s throat and he can’t think to smother it. He quickly covers his mouth with his hand, though it does little to conceal his expression. His heart twists with a certain agony and delight at the same time, a terrible contradiction -- and he’s grateful that it manifests as affected laughter instead of tears. 

Dust spills off the book in a cloud when Luke opens it, and he flips through the worn pages almost greedily. Jedi texts… the idea of this being here on Mandalore seems surreal -- but Luke wonders if that significance is misplaced. Back when the Jedi Order thrived, these texts were surely everywhere, actively dispersed among the students and masters alike… even a few short years ago, this book would’ve almost seemed common, but to Luke, it’s a relic.

And Din knows it. But what else did he know, exactly? Did he really understand the meaning of this place to Luke specifically?

Luke distantly becomes aware of Din watching him. A quiet uncertainty clouds over him, and when Luke meets his gaze, Din glances aside instead. 

“Din, did you--” Luke starts and stops, looking at the room around them with new eyes. He feels foolish for not sensing it before, when now it feels so abundantly clear: as if the ghost of him was equally buried under all the grit and rubble. 

“Did you realize who stayed here?” Luke asks softly, his voice sounding near-ragged to his own ears as he clutches the book against his twisting chest. “Did you just know it was a Jedi, or did you _know_?” 

Din seems very interested in looking elsewhere, speaking and avoiding Luke’s question altogether. “There’s books and journals,” he says instead, gesturing to another corner of the room, “Hard copies and holos. Some of the files may be corrupted by now, but… you can keep it. All of it. Most of it will fit in the landspeeder and we can take it back with us, and we can come back for anything that’s left.”

Din trails off, his arms restlessly tight at his sides, and Luke… 

Luke isn’t sure he’s ever felt so much for one person in his entire life. 

“...you call him by a different name,” Din adds belatedly, as if it takes a moment for him to find the words. “So I didn’t make the connection at first.” 

He almost says it like an apology, and Luke weakens as he steps towards him. Din shuffles his weight, staying stiff even as Luke lays his hand on his chest. 

“You’ve been doing so much for Mandalore,” Din continues, once he finds his voice again, his hands clenching, “Living here, and learning our ways. I can’t… be like you, and learn yours, but I can give you this.” 

Luke’s throat feels unbearably tight, and he looks at Din helplessly. This is why he’s been acting so strange today; he’s waited so long to give Luke something… and now he fears it’s insufficient. Luke watches him, an unspeakable fondness filling him up and threatening to make him cry. No one has ever given him so thoughtful or significant -- no one has ever considered him the way Din does. Combined with the overwhelming ache of being in Ben’s space, it’s almost too much.

Stepping close, Luke closes the gap between them. With one gloves hand on the back of Din’s helmet, he guides him down, and he lets their foreheads touch. 

“Din... you have no idea what this means to me. Thank you,” he tells him, his voice soft and unsteadily, lingering for a beat before he asks: “Can I stay for a little while?” 

Din nods, and Luke presses a soft kiss to the edge of his helmet before he sets himself down with Ben’s journals. Din’s forewarning is valid; some of them are damaged beyond repair or corrupted, but there’s an equal number that he can dig into. 

Surprisingly -- or maybe unsurprisingly -- most entries he skims are about the Duchess. At first, Luke thinks little of it. Ben would be stationed here as her guardian, so of course he’s remarking on his time with her -- except the entries get more detailed, and the contents have less to do with his missions and more about the woman herself. At the crux of it all, there’s a admission hidden within his memories, one that Luke almost feels guilty for intruding on.

Almost.

Ben, in a moment of what may be weakness or simply passion, makes a confession: _Nearly losing her made me realize that had she said the word, I would have left the Jedi order._

Letting out a soft, disbelieving huff, Luke closes the journal with a little shake of his head. 

“Hypocrite,” he accuses in an undertone, but a smile lingers in the corner of his mouth, and his chest feels warm. 

\--

When they make it back to town, Luke realizes abruptly that time got away from him. He stops the landspeeder before they reach his house, and he glances at Din in the passenger seat. 

“Thanks for letting me drive,” he tells him, already stepping out the door. “Can I leave everything with you?” 

Din’s head tilts in obvious confusion. He follows Luke to his feet, but he doesn’t immediately get behind the controls. “Where are you going?” 

“Training,” Luke reminds, honestly surprised that Din wouldn’t figure as much. “Vizsla won’t let me live it down if I’m late.” 

Sighing, Din just looks at him for a long moment. “Luke,” he starts tentatively, and Luke has to realize he’s still not used to the sound of his name on Din’s lips. 

“I don’t really mean that,” Luke insists, before Din can misunderstand. “Vizsla _is_ being good to me; it’s just also easy to make fun.”

“Luke,” he repeats, more sternly this time. “You don’t _have_ to keep training. At least not in class.” 

Blinking at him, Luke pauses. Across from him, Din’s shoulders stiffen up, and he continues. “You’ve beaten Vizsla,” he reminds. “You’ve proven yourself perfectly capable of combat, as according to the _Resol’nare_. You’ve done everything that’s been asked of you -- don’t you realize that?” 

Luke’s mouth feels dry, and his pulse quickens in his ears. All at once, Luke realizes where this is going and… his response to this particular conversation is not what he anticipated. He’s more nervous than he thought, and feeling strangely undeserving.

“But that’s _just_ combat,” Luke insists disbelievingly, unable to take the praise directly. “There’s more to the Creed than that -- you’re still telling me my Mando’a sounds awful.”

“That comes with time,” Din assures patiently, as if he expected to deal with this reply -- somehow knowing how Luke would react sooner than he knew himself. “But you know the words already.”

It figures that Din is finally giving him a break about it and Luke still feels insufficient. Dragging his hand back through his hair, Luke struggles for his voice, some strange impulse wanting to protest even though no real argument remains. It’s a short list of expectations, and Luke is filling all of them.

“Unless you’ve changed your mind?” Din asks, clearly more of a taunt than a genuine question.

“No,” Luke clarifies immediately. A grin flickers in the corner of Luke’s mouth, wavering before settling into a full, beaming smile. Excitement starts to bleed in, encouraged by Din’s insistence, and he can’t help laugh. “I just… I guess I wasn’t sure if I’d really make it.”

“That makes two of us,” Din replies coolly, and Luke rolls his eyes at him. 

“Well, I still don’t have armour,” Luke points out teasingly. “That’s a big one, isn’t it?”

Din steps closer, moving to grip Luke’s gloved hand, and his thumb rolls across his wrist. “Not yet,” he reasons, with obvious significance. 

Luke opens his mouth to speak, but he isn’t given the chance. Din’s helmet lifts, glancing over Luke’s shoulder, and Luke turns to see Cara as she approaches. 

“Hey,” she calls, glancing between them suspiciously but wisely choosing not to comment. “Sorry to ruin a moment, but you should see this.”

\--

Cara leads them to the docks, and they’re not the only ones clustering around the recently landed ship. Through the clamour, it’s difficult for Luke to decipher the crew from those who have come to meet them, and he frowns as the anxiety of the crowd fills him up. 

“What happened?” Luke pries, and though he glances at Cara, another voice answers. 

“Imperials.” 

Luke isn’t sure how he managed to miss Vizsla before he spoke. He approaches from deep in the crowd, every inch of his imposing posture stiff and simmering as he gestures for his leader to follow him. When no one tells him otherwise, Luke follows too. 

“Another remnant?” Luke clarifies, and Din shrugs one shoulder -- not careless but uncertain. 

“Not like this,” Vizsla says, and the correction sounds mournful. “It wasn’t some handful of disgraced soldiers clinging to a dying cause. They were building something new.” 

Luke almost asks what Vizsla means, but he cuts himself short. He knows what he senses before he sees it, and he desperately wants to wrong-- 

But then the crew comes into sight, and so does their cargo, and Luke’s intuition serves him too well. 

“They couldn’t find anyone stupid enough to serve the Empire anymore,” Vizsla sneers coldly, “So they started stealing children.” 

They’re still encircled protectively by the crew: a group of silent, frightened children, dressed in dull, matching uniforms that bear codes instead of names. They cling to each other, eyes wide and hands tight, and Luke feels like his chest has been hollowed out. 

Din and Vizsla keep talking, but it only half registers in Luke’s mind, and he’s already drifting away from them. With careful slowness, he comes closer, and he drops to his knees to make himself less daunting -- or so he hopes. 

“Hi,” he greets mildly, and the majority of them still recoil, but one boy watches him without flinching. Luke smiles at him, and he offers out his hand. “I’m Luke Skywalker -- would you tell me your name?” 

The boy’s face twists up, showing an agony undeserving of someone so young, and his voice is very quiet. “I don’t remember.” 

Misery twists in Luke’s stomach, leaving his skin pale, but he tries to keep it from showing on his face. He nods patiently, keeping his hand outstretched, and his voice soft. “Okay,” Luke starts gently. “That’s okay. You’re safe here -- you’re with Mandalorians, do you know what that means?” 

The boy shakes his head, and Luke continues. “They’re the strongest warriors in the galaxy,” he assures him confidently. “They’ll protect you.” 

Luke isn’t sure how long the boy watches him. The words must bring some comfort, since he at last relents, and when his hand touches against Luke’s-- 

Luke’s lips part, his heartbeat pounding, and he’s cut short by the sound of Din’s voice. 

“We’ll bring them in with the Foundlings,” he instructs the crew, “Have them looked after -- but go slowly. They’ve been through a lot.” 

Reluctantly, Luke releases the boy’s hand, letting him be guided away with the others -- and when the boy tentatively waves his hand in farewell, Luke feels like a part of him aches when he waves back. He stays on his knees, staring after them as the crowds disperse, and Din’s hand squeezes down on his shoulder. 

“Are you alright?” Din asks, voice soft as he gazes down at him, and Luke looks up at him in defeat. 

Wetting his lips, Luke feels helplessness settle in, and he squeezes Din’s hand under his own. 

“Din,” he tells him, the confession feeling like it’s cutting the roof of his mouth. “I have to go.”

\--

“Luke,” Din says, his voice a frustrated mixture of both a plea and a demand. “ _Luke_. Will you slow down? Stop for two minutes.” 

Luke can’t possibly fathom slowing down, much less stopping. Panic settles in his chest, making his heart flutter, and dread swells up in his throat like bile. He moves almost frantically around his house, grabbing things seemingly at random and shoving them into his luggage. 

It doesn’t help that Din has said his name more times in the past hour than he’s ever said it in months. 

“Luke,” Din repeats, and the sound of it is agonizing. Frustration ebbs off of him, and he snatches Luke’s arm when his patience thins. “What’s going on?” 

Luke rolls his shoulder, breaking himself loose from Din’s hold -- it’s relatively easy to free himself; Din was clearly more determined to get his attention than hold him still. 

“I can’t stay here,” Luke manages, unable to look at Din when he says it. He goes back to his things, throwing clothes together rather than attempting to fold them. “I’ve been… selfish. Just -- doing whatever I please while the Empire rebuilds itself. I could be doing something about it. I _should_ have been.”

“Selfish? What are you talking about?” Din asks in exasperation. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Embarrassment and rare, uncharacteristic anger spikes in Luke’s chest. Whipping his head around, he narrows his eyes at him. “I’m not being ridiculous,” he snaps. 

“Yes, you are, if you think you charging off, aimless and alone, is going to change things,” Din tells him. “You couldn’t have stopped this from happening; you’re just one person, Luke.”

“I’m _not_ just one person,” Luke insists on a knee-jerk impulse that he can’t bring himself to help, not boasting but despairing. “I wish that I was!” 

He’s the heir to too many things; the sole bearer of an unimaginable weight. Guilt tightens around his throat like a noose, and Luke already feels short of breath. 

“So why now?” Din presses. “Why do you _need_ to start aimlessly searching the galaxy for scraps now? There’s been Imps kicking around; that isn’t news to you.” 

“Not like this,” Luke counters. “Like Vizsla said: it’s _children_ \-- they broke up that camp, but who knows how many others are out there -- and don’t act like it doesn’t scare you too, because I can sense it, and I’ll know you’re lying.” 

It’s more direct than Luke has ever been about sensing Din’s feelings, and he regrets the sharpness of it once it leaves his mouth. Using Din’s emotions against him is both invasive and unfair, but Luke’s mind is racing too much to think better of it. 

“Same as I could sense that boy,” Luke continues, as if to soften the blow, his hands a little unsteady as he works. “There could be others out there like him… and I wouldn’t even know it.” His words, while vague, are clear enough, and Din’s posture stiffens. “Instead, I’ve just been… here, indulging myself instead of… of…” 

Luke stubbornly tries to close his luggage, and his anger reaches an unreasonable, overreacting peak as it refuses to latch. He shoves uselessly on it, and Din does absolutely nothing to help.

“That just means you should stay,” Din counters bluntly, gesturing with his hand to the door behind him. “There’s your student right there; that’s what you’ve wanted, isn’t it?”

“Not in this state,” Luke argues, though his voice does soften as he speaks. “He’s a scared boy who can’t even remember his own name. I’m not going to train him; he needs time. He needs a home -- and your people can give him that.” 

It’s what the boy deserves, honestly. The Mandalorians could keep them safe, give them a community and see to them… it won’t make up for the damage done to them at such a young age, but it’s a start. 

“They’re your people too,” Din says, his voice sharpening. “Did you forget that?”

“No,” Luke insists, and his chest twists as the realization settles in. “No. That’s not what I mean...” 

All at once, Luke’s anger plummets down into misery instead. This is what the old masters were trying to prevent. Attachments led to situations like this: where he has to stand between Din and his obligations and choose. 

Swallowing thickly, he abandons the mess of his belongings and turns to Din. “Listen,” he says, his hands shaky even as he curls them into fists. “I can’t just stand idly by. I… was wrong to think that I could. That doesn’t mean I regret this, and it doesn’t mean I won’t come back, but I have to do something.

“I’m sorry -- but I have to go,” he reiterates firmly. 

Din stands terribly still before him, and his voice is steady, soft, but an undeniable frustration hits Luke like a wave. “No.”

Shocked into silence, Luke merely stands as Din takes an imposing step closer. His posture is rigid, and Luke finds himself deliberately planting his feet.

“You’re a Mandalorian,” he tells him sharply, his voice carrying an unfamiliar tremble. “That means you listen to me, and you’re not leaving.” 

Luke feels sick: a swirling, twisted up emotion that he can only distantly recognize as not his own. Din’s temper seems like it pushes against the walls of the room, trembling with silent anger -- fear and grief and desperation swarming in a cruel, unforgiving pressure. 

“As Mand’alor,” Din insists coldly, but his tone wavers as if his conscience catches up to his impulsive words, and the rest of the thought feels less certain. “I order you not to go.”

Luke stays silent and still, letting the hot waves of Din’s feelings lap at him -- and they slowly start to recede as the silence drags on. Eventually the sharpness of it disappears altogether, leaving only a deep, hollow sadness that’s practically tangible. Shame curls in shortly after, the awareness of his own absurdity coming back to haunt Din and hang over the room. 

Din bows his head, his hands tightly clenched, and Luke’s posture weakens as he approaches him. 

“Din,” he starts, trying to meet his gaze, but Din keeps his helmet stubbornly averted. 

This feels like a punishment for all the rules he’s spurned -- as if Ben’s spirit deliberately arranged it all to teach him a lesson, to drive his point home. This is why they never wanted Jedi to have attachments, because of the feeling of sheer misery that floods through Luke when Din changes his command to a plea. 

“Don’t go,” he utters faintly, and he’s silent for a beat too long before the word rips from his throat: “Please.” 

Luke has never seen Din so subdued before, his rage thinning into something closer to despair. 

“ _Please_ ,” he repeats, with an utter submission that does not suit him, and it nearly breaks Luke’s heart. 

“I’ll come back,” Luke vows desperately, and he means it, laying his hands on Din’s chest. “I promise. I gave you my word, I’ll be back -- but I have to do _something._ ” 

Din finally lifts his head. He watches Luke, his hands circling his wrists, and he slowly nods. 

“Will you come outside?” he asks, his voice too thin -- like he expects Luke to say no. “I… had something else to show you today.” 

Luke nods silently, and Din keeps hold on one of his wrists as they leave the house. Din guides him back to the landspeeder, and he retrieves a sizable crate from the backseat -- something Luke had been too distracted by the delight of driving to notice. 

Din sets it down in front of Luke, his voice tight as he gestures with one hand. “You can open it,” he allows, his voice mild, and Luke feels an edge of regret. When Din originally planned to give this to him, he clearly wanted more desirable circumstances. He’s subdued now, more resigned than hopeful, and Luke sighs as his thumbs fit to the clasps to release the lid. 

What he sees strikes Luke silent, and he almost closes the lid again on sheer, overwhelmed impulse. He doesn’t -- keeping it open as he stares down at an elaborate set of armour. It isn’t Beskar; it’s stark white, but still polished to a gleam, and its origin is unmistakable. 

The mythosaur that Luke raised from the sand; that the Armorer forged at Din’s specific request… 

For Luke. 

Even back then, when Luke had been so certain Din distrusted him… he was already having this armour crafted specifically for him. At first, it seems surreal, but the more Luke lingers on it, it feels fitting instead. Luke can’t lie to himself; he dug the mythosaur up for Din and his son -- and Din took that gesture and returned its sentiment with an impossible significance. 

“The bones are lighter,” Din explains, sounding too rehearsed and flat, as if he doesn’t dare let his feelings get the better of him again. “It’s still lined with Beskar underneath, just not as thick. It’ll protect you, and you won’t lose your speed.” 

Luke’s heart hammers against his ribs, and with an undeniable tremble in his hand, he lifts the helmet to examine it. His good hand runs along the surface, and it’s… beautiful, in the simplest definition of the word. Luke weakens, and his mouth feels dry when he looks at Din. 

“You don’t have to wear it the same way I do,” Din clarifies quickly, “I wouldn’t ask that of you.” 

Luke didn’t ever imagine that he would -- he didn’t imagine any of this, really. Luke honestly isn’t sure how to process it. Here he thought Ben’s house had been an impossible gift, but now Luke isn’t sure there’s words to define this. 

“Din, I...” he objects quietly, carefully placing the helmet back and shaking his head. “Din. This is too much; I can’t accept this.”

Din says nothing for a moment, then he reaches down, collecting a pauldron and offering it out to him. 

“I wish that you would.” 

At first, Luke doesn’t understand. Wordlessly, he accepts the pauldron, and he has to turn it around in his hands to catch his meaning:

Engraved into the bone, stark black against white, is the silhouetted profile of a mudhorn -- a perfect match to the signet worn on Din’s shoulder. It seems utterly impossible that he could take his eyes off of it, his feet rooted to the ground as his pulse rushes in his ears. But then Din continues speaking, and Luke’s gaze snaps up to meet him.

“Marry me.” 

Luke freezes, and it seems like the world around him has gone utterly, terribly still. For what feels like too long, he’s only consciously aware of his own pounding heartbeat, and the pressure of Din’s stare as he looks at him.

“Marriage for Mandalorians is simple,” Din explains tightly, “It’s just a promise we make to one another. A vow. That’s all it takes to make us Clan. You can stay here, build your temple, train your students -- and the Mandalorians will protect them when you’re away. You could come and go as you please; I won’t stop you, but let this be your home. With me.

“I don’t know your customs,” Din admits unsteadily, talking more and more, as if fearing what might come when Luke finally gets the chance to speak. “If there’s someone who’s permission I need to ask. Something I need to do. But whatever it is -- I’ll do it. I’ll do anything for you.

“I love you.”

Luke feels it as much as he hears it. It’s as if Din needs to say it for the dam to break, and then his emotions spill out, deep enough to drown in. It’s _warmth_ , pure and unbridled, powerful if not a little frightened, and Luke has never felt anything like it before -- nevermind been the source of it. It flutters in his chest, nervous and desperate, and he finds himself breathless in the wake of it. Luke opens his mouth, but no words come, and Din keeps speaking. 

“You don’t have to be alone anymore,” Din continues, his voice breaking just a little. “You have a place here, people who care about this as much as you do. People who want to help.” Din hesitates, his voice achingly transparent. “I won’t -- ask you to decide right away. But stay tonight, at least. Think about it. Please.” 

Luke stares at him, his breaths abruptly shallow, and he feels a threatening sting in his eyes that he recognizes all too clearly. 

“I want a ceremony,” Luke blurts. 

Din straightens up, and Luke’s lips twitch upward, a giddy, stupid relief washing through him. 

“I want a ceremony,” he repeats firmly, his hands unsteady as he reaches for Din, cupping his face in his hands. “I want my sister to be there. I want a party. I want --”

At first, Luke laughs, helpless and delirious, then he almost chokes on it instead: the contradiction where pure, unbridled joy twists up in his chest, and his vision blurs with tears. 

“I want _you_ ,” Luke finishes, his voice wavering. “I want to marry you -- I want that more than anything.”

Gloved hands cup the back of his head, drawing him in until their foreheads touch, and Din laughs: the sound echoing pleasant in the metallic hum of his helmet, going straight to Luke’s chest like an ache. 

“Din,” Luke tells him shakily, “Din, I love you too.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Han tilts his head on a dramatic angle as he gazes down at him. “You gotta keep adopting new religions, huh?” Han teases. “Someone shows up with an old, nearly extinct motto and you just can’t help yourself?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saving my notes for the epilogue this time. See you all there!

As excited as Luke is to speak to Leia, he finds that his enthusiasm actually curves down to an abrupt sense of dread the moment he’s seated and waiting for the call to connect. Eager, giddy delight overtook him too quickly, and all the less appealing parts of this conversation have occurred to him too late.

Like how she’s surely going to kill him. 

Then again, maybe he’ll be off the hook, considering how long he’s been waiting for her to pick up. She’s on a busy schedule; maybe something came up, and that’s fine. Luke can face his imminent demise on another day.

Right when he reaches to disconnect, Leia picks up.

“Sorry,” she says in lieu of a greeting, halfway to sitting down and fussing with her hair. She’s working away at an elaborate updo -- the sort that’s never her idea, but usually expected of a senator at a Republic gathering. “I can never leave a gala quickly enough.”

“You look nice,” Luke praises, mostly to buy himself time, and Leia scoffs, shaking out the braid that circles her head like a crown. 

“Thanks,” she says dryly. “You look…”

She pauses, and Luke realizes that this was the wrong topic of conversation if he was trying to stall. She leans forward, as if that’ll give her a better view, squinting at the screen. 

“What are you wearing?” she asks, though she quickly answers her own question. “Is that your armour?” 

Luke straightens his shoulders, unable to help a little swell of pride despite feeling sheepish at the same time. “It is,” he affirms, “Din gave it to me yesterday.” 

He only realizes the misstep after he says it, and immediately he regrets it. Leia arches her eyebrows at him, and Luke wonders how revealing his expression is. “Who’s Din?” she says, in a tone that implies she knows very well who he is already.

“The Mand’alor,” Luke elaborates, shifting a little in his seat when Leia props her chin in her palm.

“Is that how it works?” she asks, feigning naivety as she smirks at him. “Does the Mand’alor hand-deliver armour to all his subjects?” 

“Leia,” Luke sighs, both chiding and entreating. 

“Sorry,” she says sincerely, though she maintains her grin. “Let me see it?”

Luke obliges, standing to give her a better look. Even though the scale of the mythosaur is far beyond him, the Armorer deliberately crafted the design to look like Luke is indeed wearing the unburied remains: a set of monstrous ribs lay over his own, and his gauntlets are lined with teeth. Coupled with the black of his robes, it certainly gives an ominous impression, and Luke can’t imagine it wasn’t done on purpose. 

“Wait, turn a little,” Leia instructs, making a gesture with her hand. “That symbol on your shoulder. What is that?” 

Ah.

  
  


“It’s a signet,” Luke explains, his chest warming. “For Din Djarin’s clan.” 

Luke heaves a deliberate breath and he smiles at her, his excitement returning again in full force now that he’s actually saying it aloud to someone else for the first time. 

“Leia. He asked me to marry him,” he continues, his voice wavering only slightly, “And I said yes.” 

Rather than the fiery shock that Luke anticipates, Leia’s entire expression softens. For a moment, she seems too touched to speak, and her smile twists with terrible fondness in Luke’s chest. 

“And I want you to come,” Luke adds quickly, and Leia actually laughs -- kind and adoring and Luke misses her _so_ much. 

“Of course I’ll come,” Leia insists, and she just looks at him for a moment before a thought strikes. “Does this mean you’re going to be a Djarin now?”

Luke scoffs, opening his mouth to argue -- but he pauses before he gets any words out.

Actually, he should probably clarify that. 

\--

Given the demanding schedule of a Senator of the New Republic, it takes several days before Leia can travel out. Unintentionally, Luke realizes he’s burdened Din with a very specific agony: to Din a wedding is just a handful of words, a promise without any extra trappings, and while Luke has agreed... he’s dragging the process out for an unprecedented amount of time, by Mandalorian standards.

He’ll have to remember to thank him for the concession. 

With time to collect his thoughts, Luke rethinks the very brash urge to immediately charge out in his X-Wing and hunt for scraps of the Empire on his own. In the meantime, he helps in other ways. Given his recently empty schedule, he replaces classes with passing on what he’s learned instead -- in little ways. Din was right about a few things; Luke finds that the more time he spends among the children, the more at peace he feels. It accomplishes just as much as actually rescuing them did -- giving them a home, a community to lean on. A community that Luke is a part of.

There’s value in that. 

The recent additions to the Foundlings are still mostly reserved, and Luke knows better than to push. Gradually, they’re mingling, speaking more and even daring to play games every once in a while. It hurts too much when Luke thinks about that too deeply: how they still flinch from having fun as if they expect to be punished for it. 

The same boy who was bold enough to take Luke’s hand retains that same bravery now. He’s opened up the most so far out of all of them, and his enthusiasm seems to slowly infect the others as well. 

It infects Luke too, honestly. When the boy catches sight of him today, he rushes over to see him, his face splitting into a huge smile that Luke can’t help but share. “Luke!” he calls with an almost nervous excitement. The wariness has almost completely left his dark eyes, and instead they shine with a tentative brightness much more fitting for his age.

“Luke, did you come to play _meshgeroya_ with us? Do you want to?” 

“Hello,” Luke greets warmly, kneeling down on a reflex as the boy skids to a halt in front of him. Peering over his short stature, he glances at the group of children gathered and waiting. “Well… I don’t think I should; it wouldn't seem fair.”

The boy’s shoulders slump in obvious disappointment, but he nods a little in understanding. Then, tentatively, he leans to one side. “What if the Mand’alor played too?” he asks cautiously. “And you picked different teams?” He shifts his weight before adding hopefully: “You can be on mine.” 

Luke cranes his head back, following his gaze to where Din stands: engaged in a conversation with one of the Foundlings’ caretakers, and Luke can’t resist a smirk. That would be a sight, wouldn’t it?

“I’ll have to wear him down first,” Luke says, winking at him. “Ask me next time.” 

“Okay.” The boy beams, and Luke expects him to run off to rejoin his friends, but instead he wavers for a moment before he continues. “We learned some Mando’a today! I can count.” 

“Oh?” Luke prompts, tilting his head to one side and he raises his hand, lifting one finger. “Can you show me? What’s this?” 

“ _Solus_ ,” the boy answers proudly, rocking back on his heels and crossing his arms across his puffed chest. Luke nods and lifts a second, continuing as the boy recites. “ _T’ad. Ehn. Cuir…_ um.” 

He frowns after that, and Luke smiles patiently, wiggling his thumb a little. “Not _resol_ ,” the boy starts cautiously, thinking it through. “ _R_ _esol_ is six. Like the Creed. Five is… um.” His brow furrows as he concentrates, and he taps knuckles against his own short, black hair as if to knock the knowledge out of his head. 

“ _Ray…_ ” Luke prompts mildly, and the boy practically leaps with excitement. 

“ _Rayshe’a_ and _resol!”_ he announces proudly, and something flickers in Luke’s chest -- paradoxically endeared but somehow sad.

“That’s right,” he praises softly, smiling and nodding to the crowd behind him. “You should join your friends, though, before they get started without you.” 

He hesitates for just a moment, rocking forward on his feet, and for a split second Luke almost thinks the boy might reach out and wrap arms around his shoulders in a goodbye. Instead, he seems to decide on a nod, and offers another smile before he runs off to join the others.

There’s an odd, quiet feeling that takes over him as Luke watches him go. He’s almost too distracted by it to notice that Din has finished his conversation and come to stand at his back, giving a thoughtful hum of his own.

“He likes you,” Din remarks, and it just adds to the aching feeling in Luke’s chest.

“He likes being here,” Luke counters, uncertain why he deflects the more direct compliment. “He’s doing well. The others are still… shy.”

The pause is telling, since ‘shy’ is a kinder word than ‘traumatized’ -- though it’s the more accurate description. As they start their game, none of the other new arrivals are bold enough to play right away, choosing instead to watch meekly from the sidelines. 

“It’s still early,” Din reasons, his hand moving to squeeze down on Luke’s shoulder, already familiar with finding the gaps in his armour. “Some of them take solace in Mandalore right away, considering the Creed a comfort; others need time.” 

“Which kind were you?” Luke asks, rising to his feet to look at Din evenly. Despite himself, a smile lingers in the corners of his mouth. “The eager kind?” 

“Not right away,” Din answers, though he tilts his head, watching the kids play rather than look at Luke directly. “I needed time too.” 

Mh. Luke nods a little, and Din still watches the game as he continues. “You still haven’t told him,” he observes -- a statement rather than a fact, and Luke winces. 

“It feels like taking advantage,” Luke argues, just a bit ashamed. “He still can’t even remember his name, and I’m not sure that he will.”

Din hums, and while Luke can’t quite parse the feeling that hovers over him, there’s certainly _something._

“What?” Luke presses, narrowing his eyes a little. “What are you thinking?” 

“You tell me,” Din states bluntly, his tone so flat that Luke doesn’t immediately recognize the taunt. “Jedi Master.”

Scoffing, Luke nudges his armoured shoulder against Din’s. “That’s not very funny,” he accuses. “You should be nicer to me; I just saved you from a very embarrassing game of _meshgeroya.”_

Din tilts his head, a smile audible in his voice. “Yeah? What would’ve been embarrassing about it?” 

“The fact that we would’ve beaten you,” Luke tells him, smirking and very serious. “Easily.”

“You think so?”

Luke holds his gaze level with Din’s visor, and when Din doesn’t flinch, he calls his bluff. Before Din can stop him, he rushes off towards the game -- Din’s halfhearted protest lost under the sound of his laughter. 

\--

They stand waiting in the docks while the Millenium Falcon lands on Mandalore. In the grand scheme of things, they haven’t been kept waiting very long, but every moment longer makes Luke excited and nervous in equal measure -- and he’s not the only one.

Stronger emotions are much easier for Luke to sense, and as they stand in the docks, Din’s anxiety pulses off of him in waves. Even if Luke couldn’t feel it so tangibly, the simple fact that the Child has been climbing all over Artoo without earning a single scolding from Din says enough. Luke can’t tell if Artoo has grown more fond of the little one, or merely resigned. He used to squawk and retreat anytime the Child got too grabby (maybe memories of Yoda made him skeptical), but now the Child claws his way up Artoo’s side, and the droid even opens a panel to give him a boost on the way up.

If Din notices, or cares, it doesn’t show. Cocking his head to look at him, Luke grins. “You’re nervous,” he states upfront, and Din shuffles his weight restlessly. 

“I’m fine,” he insists, though it’s far from convincing. 

“It’s just my friends,” Luke promises, laying a hand on Din’s arm. “I landed on a planet full of infamously fierce warriors and I managed pretty well -- you just have to survive meeting five regular people.”

The look Din shoots him doesn’t exactly seem convinced.

The ship finally settles, and Luke can practically feel himself vibrating as the doors drop down. Leia emerges first, and when Luke sees her, his entire posture changes. She’s dressed in the perfect middle ground between elegance and business: clearly wanting to not seem frivolous in front of very practical Mandalorians, but also needing to seem appropriate to her station. The result is a neatly cut pantsuit, and a cloak that flows behind her as she hurries forward to see him. Expression brightening, Luke meets her halfway, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing tight. 

“I missed you,” Luke says, gripping her shoulders as he presses a firm peck against her cheek. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

“I can tell,” she replies softly, leaning back to look him in the eye, and she smiles knowingly at him. Luke recognizes that look: when she’s tapping into the power that she steadfastly refuses to nurture. “You’re not just happy because of me, though.” 

“What gave you that idea?” Luke deadpans, and Leia narrows her eyes as she cups his cheek in her hand. 

“I mean it,” she chides, her expression quickly softening. “It’s… different. You seem different.” 

“Luke!”

Predictably, Han rushes out regardless of what he may be interrupting. Han acts a lot more openly enthusiastic than Luke initially expects, but he supposes it has been a long time, and Han squeezing his arms around him must feel overdue. Luke laughs as he’s manhandled: hugged, hair ruffled, and his shoulders pushed so Luke leans back for Han to survey. 

“Well, kid, I want to tell you that you look good,” Han starts, his brows raising as he gazes over him, “but the new get-up’s a bit grim.” 

“Han,” Leia scolds.

Luke fixes Han with an arched brow, but he’s still smiling. Truth be told, he gets where Han’s coming from.

“I’m a Mandalorian, Han,” Luke reminds, and saying it aloud comes with a flicker of pride in Luke’s chest. “Wearing armour is part of the Creed.” 

Han tilts his head on a dramatic angle as he gazes down at him. “You gotta keep adopting new religions, huh?” Han teases. “Someone shows up with an old, nearly extinct motto and you just can’t help yourself?”

“Han,” Leia warns again, and Han does his best to act like he doesn’t have ears. 

“Chewie, what do you think?” Han calls over his shoulder, as the Wookie joins them -- and Lando isn’t far behind. Chewie gives a pleased, droning growl, and Han stares up at him. “Well, of course _you_ like it.” 

“Chewbacca has a point; I like it too,” Lando says sincerely, very smoothly taking Luke’s hand in both of his. “You look incredible. Don’t listen to Han; he has no taste.”

Han scoffs, and it’s his turn to be ignored as Lando keeps his eyes on Luke. “Tell me, what do you call the Mand’alor’s husband?” 

Luke smiles at him, shaking his head a little. Lando is persistently too charming for his own good. “You call me Luke,” he tells him firmly. “Same as always.”

Speaking of… glancing behind him, Luke watches as Din approaches in steady strides. Taking a step back, Luke places himself at Din’s side. For reassurance, he loops his arm around Din’s, squeezing on his forearm. 

“Din, this is General Lando Calrissian,” he starts, simply by nature of Lando being closest to him. Lando releases Luke’s hand to shake Din’s instead. 

“A pleasure,” Lando says, with a winning smile that begs the question of how Lando isn’t the one getting married. 

“This is Chewbacca,” he continues, “and Han Solo.” 

Din shakes both their hands -- and Han’s expression visibly pinches, but Chewie’s doesn’t. Whether that’s a testament to Chewie’s strength (likely) or an indication that Din only exerted force on Han (also likely) Luke can’t tell. 

“This your ship?” Din asks, and Han straightens his shoulders. 

“Matter of fact, it is,” Han answers confidently, his chin raised as he lets his arm wrap around Leia’s shoulders.

Din’s helmet tilts as he surveys the Falcon behind them, and his voice lowers. “Surprised you made it in one piece.”

Han’s smug expression is wiped away in one fell swoop of surprised offense, and Luke quickly interrupts before he can bring an argument into his gaping mouth. “And this is my sister,” he says quickly, tightening his grip on Din’s arm. “Senator Leia Organa, I’d like you to meet Mand’alor Din Djarin.” 

Leia smiles at him, radiant and composed as she clasps Din’s hand in hers. “I’m grateful to finally meet you,” she tells him, sounding every bit sincere. “I’ve heard so much about you.” 

“Likewise,” Din replies, easily falling into the demeanor of a leader as he continues. “I knew who you were long before your brother arrived. Mandalore is grateful to have you here; I’d be honored to show you the city, if you’d allow?” 

“That’s very generous of you, Mand’alor,” Leia says with a bow of her head that Din politely returns, and Luke wishes both of them would drop the business persona and talk to each other normally. 

“Yeah, very generous,” Han parrots, in a way that implies his line of thought runs very similar to Luke’s. Squeezing Leia’s shoulder under his hand before he steps aside, Han continues. “You go ahead; if you all don’t mind, I’m going to find a place to drink and play _cu'bikad_.”

Luke blinks at him, tilting his head. “How do you know how to play _cu'bikad_?” Luke asks disbelievingly, then he quickly catches himself: a sigh moving his whole body. “Oh, never mind. Let me guess.” 

Han winks, though the smirk doesn’t last when Lando steps ahead and takes his arm. “Don’t listen to this pirate; Boba Fett did _not_ teach him _cu'bikad_ ,” Lando argues dryly.

Which reassures Luke for only the briefest moment before his original question circles back -- though Lando answers it without needing prompting. 

“He did teach _me,_ though,” Lando remarks slyly, casting a winning smile over his shoulder. “I just passed it along since this loser felt left out.” 

Luke closes his eyes, heaving a very deliberate breath and exhaling it very slowly. When he opens his eyes, he risks a glance at Leia -- whose outward expression betrays nothing of the low, simmering outrage that Luke feels bubbling out of her in waves.

“I’m sorry, Mand’alor,” Leia says, very earnestly, and Luke wonders if Din can recognize the same fire in her throat that Luke knows too well. “My companions must have left their manners back on the ship.”

Din makes a thoughtful sound, watching them leave, and Luke can recognize the familiar tension building between his shoulders. 

“It’s nicer this way, anyway,” Luke offers helpfully, giving Din’s forearm a reassuring squeeze, “Less people.” 

Din remains no less stiff, and Luke realizes too late that this is actually the complete opposite of helpful -- and the last place Din wants to be is alone with Luke and his sister, with absolutely no buffer in between.

...Well, maybe Luke can offer a _little_ buffer. 

“Oh, here--” Luke releases his hold on Din, rushing back to Artoo and collecting the Child up in his arms. The baby coos happily as Luke gives him a little bounce, and Luke’s grin doesn’t manage to hide its fiendishness as he turns back to Leia. 

“You get to finally meet in person,” Luke says, offering the Child out to her. “Here. Do you want to hold him?” 

Maybe it’s a little cruel of him, since Luke knows the answer already -- and the answer is ‘no.’ Hopefully Leia won’t hold the teasing against him, but her smile is too tight and her eyes betray her more than her feelings do. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” she replies, as if she’s merely being modest. 

“I trust you,” Luke insists, passing the little one into her arms without waiting for her to protest. 

Wordlessly, Leia accepts him, and the Child giggles as he reaches a clawed hand towards her face. To her credit, Leia has a better poker face than Han, and Luke wonders if her political career has ever required her to act like she doesn’t think the only son of a powerful planetary leader is hideous before.

“He must be very dear to you,” Leia offers instead, and Din hums, quiet and considering, before he speaks.

“Yes,” he replies, almost tentatively. “Him and your brother.”

The sentiment catches Luke off guard and brings warmth to his skin. It almost seems… uncharacteristic of him. Oddly transparent and forward -- especially with someone who he’s only just met. Then, the more Luke watches him, it comes together.

_If there’s someone who’s permission I need to ask..._

Luke’s posture sinks a little, and a terrible fondness twists in his chest. This is why Din is so on edge: since, in the wide stretches of the galaxy, Leia is the only person who’s opinion of him matters -- whose approval or scorn could change Luke’s mind.

Focusing, Luke reaches out to her, the thought clear and deliberate: _be nice._

Leia regards him coolly, holding the smiling Child closer against her chest as her answer echoes in his head. _I’m always nice._

\--

To Luke’s relief, Din and Leia manage to gradually shirk their expected personas as they walk together. Luke worried that neither of them would be able to keep politics out of their mouths -- not intentionally, but merely by the nature of their respective stations -- but thankfully the concern is clearly misplaced. What starts as a few stiff, formal back-and-forths gradually eases into a more sincere, honest discussion, and they’re still speaking by the time they guide Leia to her lodgings.

“You’ve done admirable work for your people, Mand’alor,” Leia praises, offering him a steadying smile. “Your reputation is well earned.” 

“That’s not the sort of reputation I’m used to having,” Din admits, his voice still a bit stiff; the praise leaving him visibly uncertain. “Thank you.” 

Something eases in Din then: tension abruptly unravelling, and Luke can’t help being endeared. The idea of Leia being intimidating is one Luke understands, and honestly he can sympathize -- but he can’t help a little bit of amusement that even the Mand’alor himself isn’t immune to her presence. 

They reach the steps of the house, and Han, apparently having had his fill of _cu'bikad,_ is waiting when they arrive. He waves in greeting before stepping down to join them. 

“It’s late,” Luke says, stepping closer to his sister with a smile of his own. “Here…” Luke takes the Child back into his arms -- much to Leia’s very tangible relief -- and she leans in to kiss his temple. 

“I’ll meet you in the morning,” she tells him firmly. 

“Yeah. Better get some sleep.” Han raises his eyebrows at Luke with obvious significance. “Big day tomorrow, right?” 

Luke fixes him with a look, and Han grins at him, putting an arm around Leia and coaxing her inside. Luke sighs as he watches them go, and he tilts his head up towards Din. “There. Was that so bad?” he asks. 

Din makes an uncertain sort of noise, tilting his head, and whatever he may say is swiftly cut short. 

“Oh! Master Luke!”

Somehow, for all the times he had nervously run scenarios of Din meeting his friends, he didn’t account for this. Threepio eagerly rushes from the side of the house, one golden arm raised in greeting, and Luke doesn’t try to hide his grin. 

“Master Luke, hello,” Threepio repeats eagerly. “You would not believe the state of things since your absence. Between you and I, I would _much_ rather be here with you and Artoo.” 

Luke can imagine why. Between Han and Leia, Threepio likely spends most of his time being snapped at or forcefully shut up (that is: shut off). “Hello, Threepio,” Luke greets, unable to stop himself from smirking as he pointedly ignores the other half of his statement. “Have you been brushing up on your Mando’a?” 

“Why, of course,” Threepio says enthusiastically. “The Princess insisted.” 

“Wait. This _droid_ knows Mando’a?” Din interrupts, whipping his head around to fix Luke under his stare -- and Luke realizes that this could possibly be the most unfortunate introduction of his entire life. 

“Yes, Mand’alor Djarin,” Threepio replies pleasantly, as if he’s the one being addressed. “I am fluent in over six million--”

“I don’t like that,” Din continues, before Threepio can finish. “Mando’a isn’t meant to be spread that way: stuck into a code and fed through a machine.” 

“Din,” Luke begins patiently. “He’s just doing his job.” 

“If it brings Mand’alor Djarin any comfort,” Threepio offers helpfully, “My records of Mando’a come from one of the first attempts of peace between--” 

“I really don’t care where its records came from,” Din says curtly, again looking at Luke rather than give Threepio the respect of his gaze, and Luke frowns at him.

Threepio flusters, as if uncertain whether to be offended or not, and Luke ignores him to focus on Din. Sighing, Luke shakes his head. “Din,” Luke coaxes gently, laying a hand on his chest. “Relax. You’re stressed and taking it out on him.”

Luke can practically feel Din simmering under his palm. Still, he relents, shifting restlessly on his feet. “Tell it not to say my name again,” Din scolds. 

Fidgeting, Threepio lowers his hands stiffly. “How… shall I address Mand’alor Djarin then?” he inquires cautiously.

“Not at all,” Din states bluntly, and Luke rolls his eyes. 

“Go with Leia, Threepio,” he instructs, nodding his head towards the house. “It’s nice seeing you again.”

“Yes, well,” Threepio manages stiffly as he climbs the steps. “It is certainly nice to see _you,_ Master Luke.”

Unable to help chuckling, Luke shakes his head, and he can feel the weight of Din’s glare.

“This is funny to you?”

“No,” Luke answers immediately, only to realize that isn’t exactly true. “Yes. Sorry. A little bit.” Grinning up at him, Luke rubs his hands on Din’s arms soothingly, squeezing down where there’s gaps in the Beskar. “I’m just not used to seeing you so wound up.” 

“I’m not--” Din starts, but he cuts himself short as Luke shoots him a challenging look. 

“I know. I _know_ , but Threepio is my friend too, Din,” Luke entreats gently. “He couldn’t hurt someone even if he tried.”

Din huffs behind the helmet, and he glances aside, lingering for a moment before he takes Luke’s arm in his. “But he’s a very _annoying_ droid,” Din insists stubbornly. 

Luke isn’t sure if Din expects an argument, but he doesn’t get one. 

“Oh, absolutely,” he agrees, flashing him a grin, and that seems to appease Din for the time being.

… until his curiosity gets the better of him. Luke can almost feel the question rattling around in Din’s mind before he finally lets it out: his voice heaving in an exasperated sigh -- as if he doesn’t really want the answer, but he can’t help asking.

“What is _with_ you people and Boba Fett?”

\--

“Have you been wearing it?” 

Leia examines Luke’s helmet, turning it around in her hands to take in the design. Luke dresses deliberately, slowly adding every carefully cleaned and polished piece of his armour, but he’s left the helmet aside -- which Leia takes as an opportunity to investigate it for herself. 

“Only a little,” Luke admits. “It’s useful; it has heat sensors. Communication channels. Translators… but I think it distracts me more than it helps. For now, anyway.” Vaguely, Luke makes a gesture towards his temple. “All the extra information clouds my mind -- but I’ll learn to parse it.”

Leia gives him a look, setting the helmet down and stepping closer to him. “You really are different.”

“What?” Luke can’t help a smirk. “So are you; where’s the lecture about marrying the leader of a notoriously dangerous warrior society?” 

“Is that who you’re marrying?” Leia asks slyly, arching one brow at him as she feigns ignorance. “Funny. You’ve never described him to me like that.” 

Luke sighs a little, honestly endeared, and his hand finds hers. “He’s not like that,” he affirms. “He’s… not like anyone else.”

Squeezing his hand under her own, Leia smiles at him. “Are you nervous?” she asks, and he shouldn’t be surprised at his own transparency with her. 

Luke laughs a little, unable to help ducking his head. Leia taps her fingers under his chin, forcing him to look up as she fixes his hair for him. All things considered, there isn’t much else to be done for his appearance: he isn’t expected to be wearing anything other than his armour.

“I feel a little guilty,” Luke admits sheepishly. “Mandalorian marriage is usually just… a promise made between two people. Ceremonies are a little unorthodox. I think I’m embarrassing him.” 

Leia makes a thoughtful sound, tucking a stray piece of Luke’s hair behind his ear. “I doubt that,” she assures him. “He’s very enamored with you.”

Huffing out a laugh, Luke gives her a disbelieving look. “I thought you didn’t want to use your powers.”

“It doesn’t take powers when something’s _that_ obvious,” Leia taunts, shaking her head at him. “I have eyes.” 

Leia pulls back to look at him, bracing her hands on his shoulders as her gaze wanders up and down. Her scrutiny would seem more daunting if she wasn’t smiling in the corners of her mouth. 

“Well, what do your eyes tell you about me?” Luke presses when the silence stretches, spreading his arms a little in demonstration. “Do I look like I’m ready to get married?”

Leia’s smile widens, and she leans in to press her lips against his cheek. 

“You look like yourself,” she tells him, “And you look happy.” 

Which is, in Luke’s opinion, the perfect way to say yes.

“Hey, flyboy.”

Cara lets herself in without even the courtesy of a knock, and while she clearly didn’t think twice about the intrusion, she clearly regrets it when she notices Luke’s company. Her eyes widen, an expression that Luke has never seen before taking over her face -- and she quickly hides it behind a bow of her head.

“Your Highness,” Cara greets stiffly, sounding almost unlike herself in how quiet she’s become. “I didn’t realize--” 

Utterly unbothered, Leia rises to her feet, reaching out to touch Cara’s arm. Luke can’t tell if it’s intentional or not that Leia’s palm rests over her tattoos. 

“You must be Cara Dune,” Leia greets. “Luke told me a lot about you; I was looking forward to meeting you.” 

Cara nods, swallowing visibly, and when she lifts her head, she focuses on Luke -- maybe for her own sanity. “Sorry to burst in,” she says, “But you should probably hurry up before Mando puts a hole through your protocol droid.” 

Bristling, Luke’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Who left Din with Threepio?” he groans, and Leia’s face pinches. 

“Han probably got tired of him,” Leia sighs. 

“Well, he already seemed ready to throw up in his helmet, and that was before the droid started talking his ear off,” Cara explains dryly, “So if you’re good to go, maybe we can put him out of his misery?”

“Yes -- sorry,” Luke says hurriedly, smoothing out his robes as he stands, “I’m ready. I think. As much as I can be. Thank you.” 

Cara returns to herself enough to wink at him before she leaves -- although she very deliberately doesn’t look at Leia at all, as if she doesn’t trust herself to do so. Luke shakes his head a little, giving Leia a look with an arched brow.

“Why does every person you meet immediately fall in love with you?” Luke asks dryly, looping his arm in hers.

Laying her hand over his, Leia gives him a reassuring squeeze. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says coolly, in a tone that indicates that she absolutely does. 

\--

Given Luke’s unconventional request, organizing an actual ceremony was an undertaking. Not because Luke was demanding anything elaborate -- just the opposite -- but because the Mandalorians simply have no frame of reference. It’s counterintuitive to their culture, and their usual expectations of what marriage means. 

Luke doesn’t ask for much, which makes things easier. There’s very little grandeur about the whole arrangement: a simple place for the two of them to stand, and space for their guests to watch, and the only real flourish is the greenery surrounding them -- that Luke inspired to take shape himself. 

Luke wonders how many of them think he’s being utterly indulgent, but he couldn’t imagine doing this any other way. Not that he was ever someone who dreamed about his wedding, specifically. It’s more accurate to say he dreamed about _who_ he might be marrying, and where it may take them -- where they could go. 

That was always part of his fantasy: the desperate urge to run away, to reach something better. This doesn’t feel like that -- not exactly. It doesn’t feel like escapism.

It feels like coming home.

That’s all he can think when he sees Din: standing tall and proud in the gleam of his armour. They approach each other on equal footing, meeting midway on the raised platform and joining their hands together. Luke wants to tell him that he looks handsome, but his voice doesn’t cooperate, and all his lips want to do is smile stupidly. 

Hopefully, his voice will come back to him when it comes time for him to speak. The Mandalorian vow is simple, and despite how Luke kept practicing the sound of it, Din assured him that he could say it in Basic instead. Maybe it was for the benefit of Luke’s guests, but Luke thinks it was a kindness to spare him the anxiety of his muddy enunciation. 

Just another way of Din looking out for him. 

Unable to help himself, Luke lets himself reach out and _feel_. Every inch of Din radiates with warmth, vivid and aching, and there’s something else; something solely to do with Luke, desperate, fond, and almost a little bit afraid. At first, Luke can’t quite parse it… then he feels stupid for not realizing sooner, and the realization washes over him like a wave... 

That’s love, isn’t it?

Din speaks first, and Luke has to wonder if the sound of his voice will ever lose its effect over him. Persistently, he maintains the contradiction of a soft but strong tone, edged with the metallic timbre that Luke’s become so familiar with. 

_“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar’tome, mhi me’dinui an, mhi ba’juri verde.”_

As Din recites his vows, something settles in abruptly: that when all of this is over, Luke will be able to hear him speak without the echo of his helmet.

It’s almost too surreal to believe. 

Din finishes, and Luke’s heart hammers in his chest. Squeezing Din’s hands under his own, Luke heaves a breath, and he’s remarkably steady when he speaks.

“We are one when together, as we are one when parted,” he repeats, his gaze level with Din’s visor, and suddenly he realizes why a ceremony must seem so superfluous… right now, they may as well be completely alone. Din, gazing back at him, radiating warmth and holding his hands in his own, is the only thing that exists in Luke’s world.

“We will share all, and together we will raise warriors.” 

Just like that, it’s done, and Luke feels his stomach flip. He barely even has time for the disbelieving grin to start creeping across his face before Din grabs back of his head. Din drags him in with a rushed, almost frantic urgency that strikes Luke off guard. The press of Din’s forehead to his own is actually enough to knock against his skull, and Luke laughs despite the sting of it: framing Din’s helmet in his hands as they linger together. 

Luke stays like that, pressed close with his eyes shut as he catches his breath, and time seems to stand still. He feels dizzy, giddy pressure thrumming in his chest, and his throat feels tight. Din allowed him to say his vows in Basic, which Luke is admittedly grateful for, and he used the time to perfect another phrase instead.

“ _Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum,_ ” he tells Din, quietly enough for only him to hear, and Din’s gloved hand tightens in his hair. 

Din laughs, soft and disbelieving, and his voice is gentler than Luke has ever heard before. 

“I love you too.”

\--

While Mandalorians aren’t used to wedding ceremonies, they certainly know how to have a party. The dining hall is filled to the brim, and Luke has to keep turning down drinks. If he accepted everything offered to him, he’d be on the floor before the sun goes down… and although even thinking about it head on brings heat to the back of his neck, he has other intentions for the night. 

When people won’t take no for an answer, he starts simply passing the glasses on to someone else. Han won’t have to order a single drink at this rate -- and Luke wants to offer the others the same courtesy… but they keep having their own share of alcohol provided for them too. Lando has attracted a generous share of admirers, which doesn’t surprise Luke in the slightest, and Leia isn’t far behind him -- which is even less shocking.

Cara isn’t the only one pulled into Leia’s orbit. She sits with both Cara and the Armorer, deep in conversation, and Han sits at her elbow, trying his best not to look bored as he works away at the pile of drinks Luke’s set in front of him. Luke watches from afar, a smirk in the corner of his mouth, and a hand nudges his shoulder.

“Jedi.”

Luke turns to see Vizsla’s stare mimicking his own. While it’s difficult to parse with the helmet, his visor is unmistakably turned on Leia. 

“That’s your sister?” he asks, his voice tense, and Luke bites back a smirk. 

“Yes,” Luke affirms cautiously, and Vizsla is quiet for a moment, his arms tightly crossed over his chest.

When he finally speaks again, his phrasing comes off clunky, almost as if self-conscious. “Is she as admirable of a warrior as you are?” 

Keeping a straight face is nearly impossible, but Luke somehow manages it. “She’s twice as dangerous as I am,” Luke corrects sagely. “She’ll tell you that herself.” 

Vizsla glances at Luke, as if double-checking, then he’s gone. He asks permission before he sits, which Leia grants with a smile. Luke can’t hear anything that’s said, but Leia’s expression becomes a smirk. At her side, Han’s eyes widen, and he looks side-to-side, as if to confirm that he’s not abruptly become invisible. 

Luke hides a laugh behind his hand, the sound stalling he feels Din touch his elbow. “Hi,” he says, smiling up at him, and Din’s tone is warm. 

“Hi,” he parrots. “How are you holding up?”

“I’ve only had two drinks, if you’re worried,” Luke teases, jerking his head to Leia’s table. “The rest all went to Han.” 

Din hums thoughtfully, his thumb rubbing idly where it rests on his arm. “...Did you want to say good night?” he asks, vague enough, but the implication involved is explicitly clear -- and Luke’s pulse skips. 

“One second,” he says immediately, parting from him to say his goodbyes. 

Lando and Chewie are sharing a table now, accompanied by a few apparently charmed Mandalorians, and Luke almost feels guilty to interrupt. Lando wraps him in a tight embrace, and then Chewie lifts Luke right off the floor -- which is apparently enough of a scene to get Han’s attention too. 

“You heading out, kid?” Han asks, resting his hands on his hips with a sigh. “Good call. You wanna get lost too, Chewie?” 

Craning his head, Chewie lets out a series of growls, and Han’s brows raise. “What do you mean you’re ‘cleaning up’? How many personal codes did you get tonight?” Chewie grunts again, and Han utters a disbelieving laugh. “ _Seven_?” 

Luke meets Lando’s gaze, sharing a smirk, and as Chewie continues speaking, Han’s voice raises. “What do you mean Leia’s ‘winning’? How many does she have?” Chewie laughs, and Han’s tone lowers into a growl of his own. “How many, Chewie?!” 

Shaking his head, Luke pats Han’s back on his way by, knowing better than to interfere. Leia is his last stop, and neither Cara nor Vizsla have left her table. 

Luke wishes he could be surprised. 

“Hey,” he greets, touching her shoulder. “We’re leaving -- but I want you to know: I’m really glad you came.” 

“I’m glad too,” Leia replies, giving his arm a squeeze, “Thank you for waiting; I wanted to be here.” 

Luke bends his head to press a quick kiss to her temple. “I’m just going to check on the baby before we go,” he says, pausing before he adds: “Unless you want to take over and watch him?”

“Very funny,” Leia says dryly. “I’m sure the Mand’alor picked a perfectly suitable babysitter.” 

“That doesn’t mean you can’t have some bonding time,” Luke teases, and Leia gives him a look.

“ _Ret'urcye mhi_ ,” she tells him playfully, and Luke has to admit her enunciation is better than his has ever been. 

\--

Even the relatively short walk back to the house feels agonizingly long. Luke walks, arm-in-arm with Din, and the tension he feels off of him is nearly tangible. He holds his tongue, though the silence doesn’t feel awkward or in need of breaking. They’re both thinking the same thing, surely, so what needs to be said aloud? 

When they reach Din’s house -- the house; _their_ house, Luke corrects with a warm flutter in his chest -- Din doesn’t stop at the entryway. He just keeps walking, pulling Luke along all the way to the bedroom. 

Ah.

Luke turns to face him, and a smile touches his face as he places his hands on Din’s shoulders. Anxiety shrouds Din like a cloud, and Luke’s chest twists with fondness despite himself.

“Are you okay?” Luke asks. He honestly can’t tell if Din is excited for this, or dreading it -- or perhaps an equal balance of both, is the best way to put it. 

Din bends his head, and Luke gently presses his fingers under his chin, urging him to glance up again. “Din,” he assures him quietly. “It’s just me.”

Luke watches him, his voice steady and reassuring. “And it’s just you,” he reminds. 

Din watches him, tension bleeding from his shoulders, and Luke wets his lips. Slowly, so Din is absolutely aware of his intent, he places his hands on either side of his helmet: fingers splayed against warm, polished metal. There’s something surreal in the action that stalls him, leaving him lingering with his hands staying firmly still. He’s grown so used to seeing Din like this, reading into the soft inflections of his voice and the slightest tilt of his head. The idea of taking that away feels… almost scary, in a way -- and if it feels that way to Luke, then he can’t imagine how it feels to Din. Din, who hasn’t shown any living thing his face since he was a boy, save for the Child who isn’t old enough to recognize the significance. Now, Luke is being offered an impossible intimacy, and the simple fact that he’ll be able to look Din in the eyes fills Luke with an unspeakable yearning. He’ll be able to look at him, kiss him, touch him… Luke heaves a slow, deep breath, and Din does the same. Din offers him no resistance, and Luke’s throat works in a deliberate swallow as he eases his helmet up and off. 

When Luke sees him--

The face beneath the helmet is as soft as the voice that Luke has grown so accustomed to. 

Luke is drawn to his eyes first, and even if Din offered him their colour before, seeing it himself is something else entirely. They’re dark, nearly black, and light catches off them like the moon hanging in the night sky. There’s a distinct wander in his gaze, weak and watery, as if he can’t bring himself to look at Luke directly yet, and Luke knows better than to draw attention to it. 

“Hi,” he says instead, soft and quietly awed as he sets the helmet down, his own voice feeling tight in his throat. 

It’s enough to make Din look him in the eye, and the intensity of it burns through him. There probably isn’t a strong enough word to define the anxiety that consumes Din now. He’s spent an entire lifetime hiding his face, denied an intimacy that Luke takes for granted every day. Is he worried that what Luke sees won’t live up to fantasy? As if Luke will lay eyes on him and then reject him?

“Hi,” Din parrots, his voice sounding terribly close to cracking.

His hair, messed under the press of his helmet, falls over his forehead, and Luke fixes it with a sweep of his hand. As Luke drags his fingers through his hair, it’s thicker than he anticipates, curling at its edges, and something about the detail makes Luke smile. He lingers there for a moment, tucking stray locks behind his ear as his gaze drifts over his face. 

“Nice to finally meet you,” he teases, and Din gives a sound like a scoff -- but it’s somehow halfway to a sob as well. 

His eyes close, just briefly, as if he needs a moment to compose himself -- and Luke is struck with a sudden revelation. After wearing his armour from such a young age, did Din ever learn to rein in his expressions? Would he have any reason to? No one would catch onto eyes rolling or a smile creeping in where it shouldn’t, so Din might not even consider holding himself back.

It’s a theory Luke wants to test. He’s certainly expressive now, his brows tightening as his throat works in a tight swallow.

The curve of his jaw and cheekbones aren’t nearly as sharp as the slope of his helmet. Luke’s fingers slide from the shell of his ear to trace along his jaw, down to his chin, his facial hair prickling against Luke’s skin. Luke can’t help a grin, his thumb smoothing out the soft bristle of his mustache, and he’s rewarded with Din giving a huff of laughter. Luke chuckles too despite the pressure in his chest, his fingers trailing fondly over the corner of Din’s mouth as he gazes unwaveringly up at him.

Carefully framing Din’s face in his hands, Luke sighs, his thumbs fitting in the little dip above his chin. Holding him there, Luke takes in the sight of him: dark hair, dark eyes, his complexion warm and his skin soft under his palms. Din stands stock still under the examination, as if even now, when control must be so difficult to reach, he’s deliberately willing himself to be steady for Luke. Still, the way his gaze drifts again gives him away -- it’s overwhelming, too much for him to weather all at once, and the weight of what he’s been trusted with is enough to knock the breath right out of Luke’s lungs.

Who has ever seen Din -- _really_ seen him, in the way he allows Luke to? Not just now, but always, in all the little ways Luke could probably never even realize.

“There you are,” Luke murmurs, almost unthinkingly. 

When Din finally dares to meet his eyes again, staring back at him, there’s almost something imploring in his gaze that goes straight to Luke’s chest. Smiling reverently at him, Luke tilts his head, as if he needs to look at him from every angle.

“Handsome,” he tells him quietly. “I told you.”

Din gives a shaky exhale: a quiet groan carrying along with it that sounds like relief. He leans his head into Luke’s hand, his mouth pressing warm and wet against the heel of Luke’s palm, and the sensation goes straight to Luke’s head. Luke still can’t come to terms with it: soft, skin-to-skin, and the _heat_ of him. 

“Gods,” Din mumbles weakly, his eyes closing again as his posture softens. “ _Cyar'ika_...”

Taking a careful breath, Luke leans in, starting with the familiar pressure of Din’s forehead against his own. He’s close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him, the soft brush of his breaths against Luke’s skin, and Luke lets his eyes drift shut. 

Din leans into Luke, his hand cupping the back of his head, and Luke’s heart hammers as their lips brush. Din acts almost tentative, the contact little more than ghosting, before he leans in with careful pressure. 

Kissing Din fills Luke with an affection so powerful it aches. No one has even looked at Din since his childhood, and the implication of that is no one has really kissed him either. Not like this. Not like how Luke does now: pressing on the seam of his lips with his tongue and opening him up in a slow, warm sweep. 

A fractured sound catches in Din’s throat, as if taken off guard by the taste of him, and he keeps Luke close with a tight fistful of his robes. To start, all Din seems to focus on is feeling him, his role mostly passive as Luke traces the shape of his mouth with his tongue. It’s fine by Luke; it just means he can take the time to slowly, deeply kiss him -- making up for every bit of contact the barrier of his armour had denied him before this moment. 

As ridiculous as it seems, Luke tries to communicate all that longing now. He can’t stop touching Din’s face, his knuckles tracing down his cheek while his other hand slides adoringly through his hair. 

Abruptly, it proves to be too much for Din to stand passively by. Tugging hard on his cloak to pull him impossibly closer, he returns the kiss with a desire so urgent that their teeth knock. Din winces and Luke laughs, soothing the gesture with a softer, quick peck against his parted lips. It reassures Din enough to try again, and Luke hums approvingly at the taste of his tongue. 

Din’s pace builds with an undeniable sort of hunger, a moan building from the depths of his chest as he kisses him. If Luke thought he was making his own longing clear, then Din’s desperation is blatantly apparent. He shudders, tracing his teeth, and he only breaks the contact to take a ragged gasp for air.

Din lets him go, his hands joining to pull his gloves off and drop them carelessly to the floor beneath them. Simple as it is, the sight of his bare hands makes Luke’s heart hammer, and he swallows thickly. 

“Please,” Din manages, half murmuring against Luke’s mouth as he reaches for him. His hands, shaking but sure, find the clasps of Luke’s armour and work away at them. 

Luke does his best to help, his hands moving to help Din ease away the layers that separate the two of them. Din can surely work away at his own armour with a trained, practiced efficiency that comes from years of wearing it -- and Luke fumbles miserably by comparison. Luckily, Din helps take care of it, and Luke chuckles a little as he relents to his experience. 

“I can do it,” he protests, though it’s decidedly half-hearted, and he can’t stop smiling. “Just wait--”

“I’ve _been_ waiting,” Din reminds, an unfamiliar urgency entering his voice that leaves no space for argument. 

The heat that rises to Luke’s skin makes up for any chill that could settle in as Din strips him. Stepping steadily forward, Din guides him long until the backs of his knees hit the mattress, and all it takes is the slightest push for Luke to tumble down. Laughing, Luke falls against the sheets, grinning up at Din breathlessly. 

Din undresses before he joins him. He takes a few steps back -- likely for practicality, needing the space to set everything aside, but Luke likes to think it also has something to do with providing him a better view. Luke sits up as he watches Din strip, steadily shedding his armour as if every piece bears an unimaginable weight. Luke knows there’s no way to put it into words. There’s an entire map of scars across his skin, both old and new, and Luke’s first impulse is to press his lips to every single one. When Din returns to him, Luke reaches for his face, framing him in his palms as he kisses him again. 

“Let me look at you,” Luke asks softly, leaning back a little to take in the sight of him. He’s a contradiction again: looking like someone entirely new without the armour, yet still seeming so much _himself._

Admittedly, Luke had worried about that: like there’d be some strange disconnect while he reorients himself to what Din truly looks like -- but there’s nothing that interferes. Just the opposite, there’s the feeling of something _right_ the longer he looks at him. 

Slowly, carefully, Luke lets his hands wander. There’s a softness to his skin that Luke should’ve anticipated, and Din shivers at the barest contact -- his head bowing as an unsteady exhale escapes his lips. He’s so handsome that Luke can hardly stand it.

And who else has ever had the privilege to see him like this? It’s his and his alone now, and Luke feels an uncharacteristic sort of greed mingle in with his adoration. 

Luke can’t help himself; is it so wrong to be selfish about just one thing? 

He follows a long, crooked scar from the edge of Din’s shoulder to the centre of his chest. Then, another that curves along his ribs, and Din gives a huff of a laugh in reply that makes Luke wonder if a lifetime of denial has left him extra-sensitive. It’s a tempting thought, and Luke logs it away for later, knowing it’s too cruel to tease him now. 

“You have so many of them,” Luke says softly, his thumb circling a spot dangerously close to Din’s heart, and Din hums in reply. 

“So do you,” Din points out quietly, and Luke still hasn’t adjusted to the pure, unaltered sound of his voice. 

Luke has been so fixated on looking at Din for the first time that he hasn’t stopped to think about how he must look to Din: seeing him with his own eyes, without the barrier of the visor to separate them. He just watches him for a moment, an expression that Luke can’t define as any one emotion overtaking his face, and he sighs shakily as he urges Luke to lay back against the mattress. His hand slides down Luke’s chest, his thumb tracing the jagged edge of his scars, and Luke’s stomach twists with anticipation. 

All at once, it’s abruptly too much: seeing Din -- really seeing him -- and being this close to him threatens to short out all of Luke’s better sense.

“Anything you want,” Luke offers, immediately and without hesitation, and he’s impossibly grateful that he can see the look Din gives him in response.

“I mean it,” Luke emphasizes, before Din can manage to question him about it. Then, with clear self-consciousness, he realizes he should own up to his half of this as well. Heat burns over his face to admit to it, even now, which should seem ridiculous, but Luke can’t help himself. “I want to -- I’ve _wanted_ to.” 

It’s all the coaxing Din requires. Leaning over him, Din fumbles around in the bedside drawer, and the implication alone makes Luke’s head rush. Din takes what feels like an eternity, slicking his fingers and rubbing them together to warm them, and Luke catches the inside of his cheek between his teeth. He tries to will himself into staying focused, but his pulse rushes wildly in his ears as Din rejoins him. 

“You have to tell me,” Din says, his voice quiet but serious as he positions himself above him. Luke isn’t sure how he manages to hear him over the rapid pounding of his heartbeat, but he nods, offering him a grin -- and the expression quickly falters when Din reaches down between them.

As much as he wills himself to relax, his body still instinctively tenses. Wincing, Luke closes his eyes, and his next breath hisses in from between his teeth. “Easy,” Din cautions, his free hand brushing stray locks of hair from Luke’s face, while the other stays carefully still.

Heeding the advice, Luke takes in another slow, deliberate breath. “It’s good,” he assures him quickly, his voice just a little strained and carrying the edge of a laugh. “It’s _good_. It’s just -- been awhile.” 

Luke’s face burns, feeling terribly exposed -- but not judged; Din never seems scrutinizing. Instead, he stares down at Luke like he’s something to covet. Slowly, he starts again: one slick finger sliding up inside Luke with steady pressure, moving in a few, shallow thrusts that quickly build when Luke nods in eager assent. 

“Yeah,” Luke sighs hazily, squeezing down on Din’s shoulders -- bare skin under his palms, warm to touch and already edged with sweat -- to keep him close. Din takes it as permission, easing a second finger up inside him, and Luke’s breath catches with a whining sound, rocking his hips down to meet him. “ _Yeah.”_

The strain of taking him in abates easily enough, replaced with a warm, insistent ache that curls deep in the core of him. Din hums softly under his breath, his gaze wandering over Luke with an affection that _burns_ as he opens him up. Clearly emboldened by Luke’s reaction, Din moves in a full, firm rhythm, pausing to either curl his fingers or spread them apart: stretching him open and sighing when Luke shudders. 

“You’re so much,” Din utters, almost too quiet to be heard, and Luke gazes up at him with a breathless grin. Din’s free hand cups his face, holding him as he takes in every ache -- good or bad -- that crosses his expressions. “Luke…” 

Din turns his wrist, just enough, and this time when his fingers curl… the slow, steady way Din’s been touching him abruptly peaks, and Luke gets a headrush.

“Oh--” Luke chokes on the sound of it. Scrambling, he grabs Din’s upper arms, nodding frantically into his palm with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Mmhm,” he intones uselessly, his hips jerking back against his fingers. “Mmhm...” 

“There?” Din asks, voice ragged, and Luke wishes he could keep his eyes open, but the simple gesture requires a coherency that’s already far beyond him. With deliberate purpose, he repeats the motion. “Like that?” 

Luke makes an embarrassing, keening sound in reply, and every inch of him aches, his hips lifting off the mattress in a demanding arch. Above him, Din laughs, almost disbelieving, and he slides his thumb over his cheek. 

“I could just -- watch you like this,” he confesses quietly, as if he wouldn’t be able to get enough of it. “I could do this forever.” 

The words alone are enough to make Luke dizzy, never mind having Din touch him at the same time. As if to emphasize the point, he curls his fingers back against that spot, and Luke loses his voice to a moan. He’s desperately hard, precum leaving a damp smear over his stomach, and Luke feels like he might go crazy before Din gets his fill. It’s a heavier, more explicit version of the attentiveness that Luke has grown so used to, coupled with a new, desperate hunger that’s both greedy and selfless at the same time. 

Laughing and whining all in one breath, Luke knocks his palm against Din’s chest, forcing his eyes open to gaze up at him imploringly. “Din,” he entreats, his despair half playful and half very genuine. “Din. It’s good, but _please_ , I want to feel you so badly -- don’t make me beg.” 

Honestly, though, whether Din wants it or not, Luke may start begging anyway. Din’s face -- exposed, handsome, flushed -- twists up into something desperate, and Luke doesn’t get nearly enough time to study it before Din covers his gasping mouth with his in a kiss. 

“Shit,” Din curses quietly against his mouth, drawing his hand back with careful slowness, and if the pressure of Din’s fingers inside of him felt like too much, then the absence of them is somehow worse. Luke moans quietly, the wanting ache in him suddenly so much more pronounced, and he focuses on Din to distract himself from it. Din, breathless and a little bit unsteady, pulls back to slick his hand again, biting back on a groan as he spreads lube along the length of his cock. 

Luke bites his lip, watching indulgently as Din touches himself, and he immediately relates to Din’s possessive claim from just moments before. He could just watch Din like this: hard and shivering -- from his own hand or Luke’s -- but Din doesn’t give him much time to linger on it. He settles himself back between Luke’s legs, and Luke draws his knees up on either side of him. 

“Slowly,” Din warns, though it seems almost directed at himself as much as at Luke. Laying warm hands on the inside of Luke’s thighs, he urges his legs a little further apart. Then, he grabs his hips and gracelessly, _playfully_ , drags Luke closer until he’s practically in his lap.

“Better.”

The motion startles a laugh out of Luke, the manhandling bringing the grin back to his lips. It feels good -- it’s a reminder that brings him back to himself. That despite how overwhelming this whole process is, it’s also Din, who is always so determined to take care of him, and not coddle him. Din, who _loves_ him… 

Din, who presses forward now, and Luke hides his mouth behind his palm again. One hand grips firmly on Luke’s hip, the other steadying his cock as he slowly sinks into him -- holding still when Luke’s expression tightens. 

Luke makes a sound that he doesn’t recognize. It’s so much. So much more than feeling his fingers had been. There’s no barrier between them, and that thought sticks out the most: this is going to be the closest they’ve ever been. There’s nothing but Din’s skin on his skin, Din’s thick cock inside him: hot and hard and pushing deeper into him. Luke’s ears ring and he muffles a sound like a sob beneath his hand. His legs shake on either side of Din and, digging his heels into the mattress, Luke keeps himself stubbornly still.

Luke barely resists crying out. It isn’t pain, but sheer, unbridled sensation that pools through him the instant Din eases inside him. His chest heaves, his head tipping back against the bed, and he covers his hand with his mouth. Instinct makes his body tense, and he knows he needs to calm down, but Luke’s mind races too quickly for that to even seem feasible. It’s been so long, and he’s wanted Din so _badly_ that even this much is close to overwhelming. 

An awful fear edges in: that he’s wound himself up for so long craving and now he won’t even be able to endure it -- and he might lose himself before they even get started. 

When he settles enough to regain his awareness, he realizes that Din isn’t much more coherent. Blunt nails dig into Luke’s hips, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make it very clear that he's giving a significant effort into holding back. His eyes are clenched shut, his lips parted for shaky, uneven breaths, his skin darkly flushed, and Luke has never wanted anyone so badly in his entire life. Desire burns, aches through every muscle in his body.

Giving up any attempt to muffle himself, Luke reaches out with both hands, uselessly grabbing at Din, seeking any part of him within reach to urge him closer. “Din,” he utters desperately. 

“Easy,” Din cautions immediately, losing his warning to a sharp groan as Luke’s coaxing draws him deeper. He repeats himself, softer and affected, his hand smoothing over Luke’s cheek. “Careful…” 

Somehow, Din’s attempts to soothe him only serve to rile Luke up even more. It does strain, just enough for the ache to feel appealing rather than distracting, and Luke knows his limits now. Heart hammering, he braces his heels, digging in as he rocks his hips. “It’s okay,” he assures him breathlessly. “It’s okay-- I can take it; let me take it…” 

Din’s eyes flutter, and he lets out an unsteady exhale. “Okay,” he relents softly, sounding like he’s convincing himself. “Okay.” 

With that, Din’s restraint seems to finally shatter, and he moves. Even after Luke coaxed him on, the feeling of Din pushing into him, hot and hard and unrelenting, is almost too much for Luke to manage -- although not in a bad way. Luke feels impossibly full, and the ache that comes with the strain to take all of him in actually helps far more than it hurts. Din doesn’t stop until they’re flush against each other, and Luke’s eyes roll back with sheer, blissed out sensation. 

Din leans over him, and Luke immediately reaches out again, his hands scrambling uselessly over the warm skin of his back. Wrapping his arms around him, he pulls Din close, chest-to-chest. He wants to feel it -- wants to just feel all of him, as tight and close as they can muster… but he can’t get the words out. He can barely think straight, much less speak, and Luke just whines at his own uselessness. This is the closest they’ve been without the armour, and Luke is impossibly greedy. He wants to feel as much of Din as possible; he wants to be as close as two people can possibly be. Even feeling Din’s damp breath against his own skin doesn’t feel like enough.

“Yeah?” Din coaxes hoarsely, and Luke has to wonder how he manages to speak at all. His voice does waver, rough and ragged in a way Luke has never heard before, and the sound of it edges pleasantly up his spine. Still unable to find his voice, Luke nods, and Din huffs out a sound that might be a scoff, if it wasn’t so breathless.

One big hand, worn and warm, slides down along Luke’s side, moving almost torturously slow before finally wrapping around Luke’s aching cock. Luke gasps out, his back curving to arch shamelessly off the bed as his entire body jerks up into Din’s palm. It’s almost too much. There’s no possible movement Luke can make that doesn’t result in sensation: stuck between pushing up into Din’s hand, or grinding back down against his cock. 

“I can’t believe you,” Din says softly, idly brushing back Luke’s hair as if his sweat-damp bangs obscure his view. “Look at you…”

Hazily, Luke blinks up at him, unable to really parse the comment properly -- and he’s not given much chance to puzzle it out. Holding tight on Luke’s hip, Din thrusts up into him again: short and hard and overwhelming. Luke’s mouth falls open, but no sound comes out, his mind hums with white noise. It’s all he can do to dig his fingers into the tight muscle of Din’s back and shudder, turning his face into the crook of Din’s neck to taste the sweat against his pulse.

He keeps going like that: shallow and slow to start, and the more Luke opens up beneath him, the more Din gives him in return. For too long, Luke’s worried he’s lost his voice completely, but then Din brings it back to him: shocking sharp, pleased little gasps from his throat along with every snap of his hips. It’s embarrassingly explicit, and Luke covers his mouth on a humiliated instinct -- or he tries to, then Din quickly snatches his wrist and pins it back against the sheets instead. 

_That_ comes with a whole other raw thrill that burns hot over Luke’s skin, and a low whine joins the chorus of shameless noises falling from Luke’s mouth. Din can’t move without drawing ripping some sound out of him, either short and strangled or drawn out and keening -- and Din groans as if hearing them is just as overwhelming as the tightness of Luke’s body around his cock. 

He’s _big,_ a stupid, explicit part of Luke’s mind keeps stubbornly repeating, and it’s not something that becomes any less overwhelming. If anything, the pressure of it only builds more and more every time Din moves inside of him: filling him up and pressing deep, and the rhythm of his hand stroking up along his cock is set to match. 

Din groans above him, moving to grip behind Luke’s knee and coaxing his leg up. Heat burns through him when Din spreads him, shifting his position, and when the angle changes… 

Luke very nearly moans, but the sound strangles in his throat, mixing up with a blissful, delirious sort of laugh instead. It’s a breathless, shuddering sound, and Luke tosses his head back against the sheets, the hand trapped under Din’s hold clenching into a fist.

“Din,” Luke finally manages, finding enough coherency to make his mouth work. His one free hand clutches at Din uselessly, digging into the hard muscle of his upper arm, and he squeezes his eyes shut -- as if that somehow will make everything easier to bear. “ _Oh_ , I love you.”

The admission only makes Din move harder, another quiet curse falling from his lips, and Luke is luckily not too far gone to move. Taking Din’s coaxing, he hooks his leg over Din’s shoulder, while the other digs into the mattress, bracing himself enough to rock back against him. He meets Din’s thrusts, taking him deeper -- harder -- and Luke shudders with an unsteady moan. 

“It’s good,” Luke babbles uselessly, “it’s right there, and you feel _so_ good, Din, please -- _please_ \--” 

Even that much makes Din shudder wildly above him, and his lips press feverishly across Luke’s skin: his forehead, his cheeks, his neck… anything, but refusing to muffle his mouth under his own.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he accuses lowly, his lips moving warmly over Luke’s temple, and Luke arches up to meet him with a laugh in his throat. 

“Please,” he repeats shakily, wishing he could say he’s teasing on purpose to rile Din up -- but it’s also very sincere desperation. “ _Please--_ ”

Din groans, his hips snapping up against Luke with a sudden abandon -- permission granted by Luke’s begging chorus. Every motion he makes presses up in that perfect, overwhelming angle inside of him, and Luke’s eyes flutter as he gives in: riding back and forth shamelessly between Din’s hand and his cock. 

“ _Gar’neir,_ ” Din utters quietly, and the possessive claim doesn’t quite line up with the soft, hushed rasp in his voice. It’s almost spoken in disbelief, as if he expects affirmation, and Luke luckily isn’t too far gone to give it. 

“Yeah,” he manages shakily, cupping the back of Din’s head with his free hand. “Yeah -- you’re mine; I’m yours -- _please…_ ”

It doesn’t take much more. Din presses in to the hilt, his hand twisting on one long, slow stroke, and Luke can’t endure it. He comes with a shuddering, drawn out moan, his back lifting off the mattress in a needy arch as he spills over Din’s fist. Every inch of him feels alight, his chest heaving in sharp, unsteady gasps for air, and he buries his face into the welcoming heat of Din’s throat. Sensation ebbs through him, thudding at the base of his spine and making his toes curl. Muffling a whine against Din’s neck, Luke finds himself keenly aware of the line of his pulse under his lips, and how it flutters as wildly as Luke’s own heartbeat. 

“You too,” Luke urges faintly, feeling almost delirious as he kisses along Din’s throat, feeling the bump of his stubble and tasting sweat. Blissed out and hazy, Luke rocks his hips back on Din’s cock, shivering as a dull ache echoes through his body. “I want to feel it.”

From where he hovers above him, Din curses. He at last releases Luke’s wrist -- and Luke is too worn out to do much with his newfound freedom right away -- and uses both hands to grip hard on his hips. 

“Luke,” Din groans lowly, like he’s the one begging, holding onto Luke like a lifeline as he thrusts up into him -- losing rhythm to his own urgent desperation. 

Dragging his nails indulgently up Din’s back, Luke grins from where he lays beneath him. His body is utterly relaxed, blissed out, and every movement Din gives feels hazy and warm instead of dizzying. “Yeah,” he coaxes quietly, almost unaware of himself as he continues speaking, “There you go; it’s good -- c’mere, I wanna kiss you when you come…” 

That proves to be the breaking point. Din buries his hand into Luke’s hair, grabbing a fistful and pulling tight. He crushes Luke’s mouth under his own as he spills out into him, and Luke hums in quiet, overwhelmed approval. His moan, desperate and unsteady, is swallowed up in Luke’s mouth, the vibration edging down his throat, and Luke cups the back of Din’s head to keep him close. Luke kisses him, deep and seeking, and holds Din close as he shudders apart on top of him. 

As his shivering subsides, Din sinks into Luke’s arms with a quiet but drawn-out groan. Luke hums affirmatively, kissing his temple with a grin tucked into the corner of his mouth. 

“Yeah?” he asks quietly, his fingertips idly tracing up and down Din’s back. Even that much makes Din shudder, and utters a sigh that almost sounds like defeat. 

“Yeah,” he affirms, short of breath and barely audible, and Luke chuckles softly -- the sound sharpening to a short gasp when Din pulls back, choosing to settle snugly against Luke’s side rather than burden him with the full brunt of his weight.

Din heaves a slow, deep breath, tucking his head under Luke’s chin as he drapes his arm across his chest. “Just -- give me a minute,” he murmurs vaguely.

“Mmhm,” Luke intones indulgently, already sensing that a minute will be all it takes for Din to pass out completely -- but he doesn’t have the energy to call him on it, since he’s halfway to unconsciousness himself. 

Neither of them speak again, and Luke lets his eyes drift shut, succumbing to sleep with the slow, soothing sound of Din’s breathing and the warmth of his body pressed tight against his own. 

\--

When Luke wakes up, he realizes he’s spent the majority -- if not all -- of the night using Din’s chest as a pillow. It rises and falls with the steady rhythm of his breaths, too deep for him to be awake yet, and any lingering trace of exhaustion is quickly overwhelmed by Luke’s mixture of affection and excitement. 

Moving slowly, Luke does his best not to wake him, glancing up at Din as he sleeps. There’s a funny feeling that he can’t escape: a strange fear that he’d open his eyes to find Din shut away behind his armour again. That the events of the night before were just a dream. Naturally, that isn’t the case, and Luke gets to look at him: fast asleep, messy, and cast in the warm light that bleeds through the window shades. 

Looking at him now is no less overwhelming than seeing him for the first time. Din looks different when he sleeps, his handsome face not wearing any of the anxiety that came from unmasking to Luke for the first time, or the fevered desperation that followed. What replaces that is a certain sort of peace: no tension in his jaw or crinkle in his brow. 

Luke takes in the sight of him, and he wonders. Din looks older than him -- not by much, maybe, but enough. It shows in the corners of his eyes the most: a certain weariness that can’t be shaken even as he sleeps. Luke doesn’t mind it; the thought actually brings a smile to his lips as he imagines the years it took to bring him to this moment, all the strife and chaos he endured to finally find himself here… 

In this bed, with Luke. 

Maybe it’s those years of stubborn survival that make him a light sleeper, keen to realize when he’s being watched. Hazily, his eyes flutter open, and it seems to take a moment for his sleep-heavy mind to reconcile what he’s looking at. Once he does, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, rubbing his hand tiredly over his eyes. 

“Good morning,” Luke greets, grinning down at him.

Din’s answer comes as a noncommittal hum, and Luke chuckles, laying his palm on his cheek warmly -- then, with a moment of hesitation, he lets his thumb smooth out of the edges of his moustache. It’s probably the most unexpected aspect of Din’s appearance, and at the same time the detail he keeps circling back to with an indescribable fondness. 

It fits his face in a way that he can’t put his finger on, like a finishing detail that completes his image into something Luke specifically recognizes as _him_. He can’t help but remember picking through Din’s cabinet what feels like so long ago, wondering... now he finds that he likes the answer to that wondering more than he knew he could. This one little deliberate bit of control Din’s taken over his own image, this one private vanity that suits him so well. 

Taking every opportunity he can get, Luke leans in to kiss him. and Din grunts a little, the protest very halfhearted before he opens his mouth. Luke takes the invitation happily, humming as he pushes his tongue past his lips -- just briefly, just enough to draw a low, lingering groan from Din’s throat. 

“Hi,” Din answers at last, his voice hoarse from sleep and it curls warmly in Luke’s stomach. 

“Hi,” Luke repeats dryly, letting his cheek rest on Din’s chest as he peers up at him. “How’s the Mand’alor this morning?” 

Din chuckles in disbelief, shaking his head a little as he gazes back at him with fond eyes. “How’s Luke Djarin this morning?” he asks.

A shocked burst of laughter breaking from his throat, Luke resists the urge to shove the face he’s waited so long to see under a pillow and push. “He’s doing about as well as Din Skywalker is doing,” he counters. 

A very distinctly sour expression colours Din’s face -- too openly expressive, Luke was right -- and Luke’s laughter deepens. “That’s what I thought,” he announces smugly. “See, you don’t-- ah!” 

Faster than Luke can anticipate, Din locks arms around his middle and flips him onto his back. Din descends on him, kissing a trail down his neck, and his stubble scratches pleasantly against his skin. Open palms follow down Luke’s sides, taking him in by touch. “It’s a good last name!” Luke insists, tipping his head back instead of bothering to fight. “It’s my family!” 

Din hums against his throat, and the vibration teasing over his skin does something to Luke that he doesn’t have a name for. “You’re the only one who uses it,” he points out, not arguing but matter of fact. 

Well. Din has him there; Luke could never convince Leia to be a Skywalker even if it was life-or-death. “All the more reason for me to keep it,” he reasons, “With my new family.”

Din lifts his head at that, and seeing his face still comes with a twist in his chest: desperately enamored at the sight of him. Din sighs, knuckles brushing idly against Luke’s waist, and his brow tightens as he speaks. 

“I wanted to talk to you about that,” Din starts, almost cautiously, and Luke tries to relieve the obvious tension in him by cutting in. 

“I practiced both vows,” he tells him quickly. “Marriage and adoption.” Nervously, Luke grins up at him. “I hope that wasn’t… presumptuous of me. I thought it would be expected, with the three of us.” 

Din’s expression softens, but not in the way Luke anticipates. He glances aside, his tongue wetting his lower lip, and his uncertainty puts Luke on edge. He tilts his head as he gazes up at him, looking for some answer in his face -- he finds none, and luckily Din uses his voice instead.

“That isn’t what I meant,” he clarifies. “Not exactly. You said three, and I think it could be four.” 

Luke pauses, and the implication hits all at once. His stomach drops and Din continues very earnestly. “And I’m afraid you’ll think it’s unfair, when there’s so many of them,” he says steadily, “But you’re good with him, and he likes you -- and… you’d be a good father to him. You keep mourning his name, but you could give him one yourself. He doesn’t know it anymore, but it doesn’t matter; you know _him._ That’s what the vow means.”

_I know your name as my child._

Luke opens his mouth, and at first nothing comes out. He watches Din’s face along with every open and honest emotion that passes over it, and his heartbeat sharply picks up speed. He’s once again, for a countless number of times now, left in awe of how Din takes care of him. How he could pinpoint the longing that Luke was too scared to even define, Luke isn’t even sure. Luke didn’t realize, but Din did -- he recognized the ache and refused to let it simmer.

Somehow, Luke never thought he _could_ have something as simple as that. He never thought he could have any of this, if he’s honest with himself. Now, here he is: here, with Din, who gazes down at him -- as radiant and warm as a binary sunset. 

“Listen,” he says softly, his fingers following the line of Din’s jaw -- tracing there the same way he’d touched his helmet so many times before. “My whole life, I… I don’t know. I wouldn’t have said I was lonely, but…” 

Luke’s brow furrows. But the truth is, the idea has been lingering on him more and more, as Din’s voice rattles in his head: _you don’t have to be alone anymore._

“But you were right,” he continues, voice just a little unsteady. “Everything just kept coming, with the Rebellion and the Jedi, and I guess I didn’t… stop to think about myself; I didn’t think that I _could_ have anything else _._ Or _be_ anyone else. When the gravity of everything went so far beyond me, I didn’t have the luxury to be selfish.

“It’s not selfish,” Luke corrects, sensing the argument on Din’s lips and catching it before he can voice it. “It’s… ordinary, really, and that’s the strangest part about it, isn’t it?” Lingering, he fits his thumb into the dip above his chin. “A husband, a home, and a family; it’s all just… ordinary, but I guess a part of me still can’t believe that I’m allowed to have it. Or that you found me, under everything else I was supposed to be.” 

Din wets his lips, arching his brow as he gazes down at him. “...You just swore the Creed, married the leader of Mandalore, and made plans to officially adopt _two_ children with the same powers that you have…” Din reiterates slowly, trailing off as he searches Luke’s face, as if looking for some answer hidden in his features. “So if that’s ordinary, I’d hate to see your definition of exciting.” 

Luke can’t help laughing. Leaning upward, Luke frames Din’s face in his hands, uttering a quiet, shaking sigh as he kisses him. Din utters a soft sound of his own, tracing the roof of Luke’s mouth with his tongue.

“I love you,” he tells him desperately, breaking the kiss to murmur against his lips. It fills his chest until it’s fit to burst, warming his skin and thrumming through his veins. It’s an inherent truth that’s made its home in his heart, and as he gazes up at Din now, he thinks there’s going to be a million ways to keep learning it. “I’m so happy it’s you.” 

“Mh,” Din intones, bumping their foreheads together on some instinct that he clearly can’t smother, even now. “I love you too.”

  
  



	13. Epilogue

Surrounded by a council of his people, Din Djarin leans back in his seat and he wonders. 

Over time, he assumed he would adjust to these sorts of things: the meetings and the politics and the carefully laid plans. Din can lead; he can coordinate his people… when the task is an inherently violent one. When there’s something practical to do, something with a clear goal, accomplished with his hands, he can act. These softer, political ordeals leave him uncertain, no matter how long he and the council debate. It doesn’t suit him, and the unfortunate fact of the matter is that Din still finds himself unfitting here -- which is a personal truth and frustration that’s only ever been uttered to Luke.

And Luke isn’t here, so the annoyance simmers uneasily in Din’s chest with no outlet.

“Our strength is limited by our numbers,” the Armorer points out, “And Mandalore comes with sanctuary and sacrifice. Soon, word will spread, and many enemies will know we’re here once more, all in one place and easy to target.”

“And let them come,” boasts Vizsla confidently. “To ask for the New Republic’s help would only make us seem weak.”

“An alliance isn’t inherently a weakness,” Din offers, and how long he’s been silent only becomes apparent when there’s a visible surprise at the sound of his voice, and several heads abruptly turning in his direction. “They’re the ones who reached out to us.”

There’s a moment of quiet, and it only makes Din more uneasy. He doesn’t like how every small thing he says is taken with so much more weight; the Armorer speaks with more insight and composure than he ever manages, but she isn’t offered the same attentiveness. Sometimes, he finds himself wishing she would challenge him for the Darksaber simply so she could run these committees herself, and leave him out of it. 

She won’t. For some reason that Din isn’t fully conscious of, she likes the Darksaber right where it is.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Vizsla reclines in his seat. “Which means they want something,” Vizsla ventures thoughtfully. 

The Armorer’s tone is dry, as if she doesn’t quite believe it herself, when she answers. “According to their offers, what they want is peace.”

Din scoffs before he can think to reign himself in. “What a joke.”

“So you agree it’s not worth our time?” Vizsla asks, with pressure that sits uncomfortably on Din’s shoulders. 

With a mild tilt of his helmet, Din pauses, picking his words carefully. “I agree politicians have their own ideas,” Din clarifies, tapping one finger on the table, “And not all of them are selfless enough to mean what they say in a formal address.”

Again, silence follows his words, and Din resents it without meaning to -- but then, when the Armorer speaks, Din immediately regrets his scorn.

“What of Senator Organa?” 

He would’ve preferred the silence. 

The Armorer watches him levelly, and it feels like a challenge, though not in the obvious way. She isn’t trying to expose him for being biased; that much he can tell. It wouldn’t be like her. So, what? Why pry about this now? Din meets her stare, frowning behind the cover of his helmet, and he speaks.

“An exception,” he answers cautiously, “Not a rule.”

Vizsla heaves a sigh, shaking his head. “Let them wait, Mand’alor,” he offers, waving his hand as if to disperse the sentiment from the air itself. “Don’t answer yet.”

“I agree,” the Armorer says firmly. “Replying swiftly, whether to accept or deny, will either look over-eager or scornful; these matters take time.” 

Din heaves a sigh and nods in assent, letting them both rise to their feet, along with the rest of the council who take their leave before them. Vizsla follows the others, but the Armorer lingers, falling into stride with Din as they depart from the council room.

“Just get it out,” Din entreats as they walk together, the Darksaber feeling impossibly heavy on his hip. “I know you want to.”

The Armorer doesn’t even flinch. “I assume you’re referring to the topic of your husband, in regards to this treaty,” the Armorer says loftily, and Din clenches his jaw. 

“Yes,” he replies, just a bit tightly. 

“It’s not my place to say,” the Armorer states, though she continues all the same. “If you don’t wish to sign a treaty, I believe your husband will understand, and Mandalore can remain neutral.”

“But you don’t think _I_ can remain neutral,” Din assumes bluntly, and the Armorer tilts her helmet at him. 

“That isn’t at all what I think,” she replies curtly. “I believe you are passionate about your people and the life you have made for yourself here. That fact doesn’t make you compromised, Mand’alor; it makes you all the more capable to lead. It’s a tenet of our culture.” 

Struck silent, Din watches her for a moment, and he heaves a slow, heavy sigh. For the umpteenth time, he wonders why _she_ isn’t leading, but he doesn’t risk the disrespect in saying as much.

“Thank you,” he says instead, the praise sitting uneasily on his shoulders -- he isn’t sure he knows what to do with it.

The Armorer lets him settle on that for a moment, but she isn’t through with him yet. Casually, she continues, as if remarking on the bright, sunlit day around before them. “Did your research ever bring you to the prophesied end of our people?” 

Din’s pace slows abruptly to halt, and the Armorer continues her stride as if undeterred. For a moment, Din merely stares -- then, tightening his jaw, he rejoins her, his voice short. “You know the answer to that already,” he points out in an undertone, uncertain why she’d bother to ask. “ _What_ prophecy?” 

“It came from a Sith, so it’s debatable how much one should choose to believe,” she continues, speaking remarkably calmly considering the subject. “But it was foreseen that the Mandalorians would die slowly, fading out one by one over a millenia of war and strife -- until only one of our kind remained. By then, having endured years of struggle and bloodshed, he would be shattered and empty: a shell of a man in the shell of his armour. This last Mandalorian would meet his end at the hands of a Jedi, broken and too easily defeated.” 

Din waits, watching her, and behind the shield of his helmet, he wets his lips. “Why are you telling me this?” he asks cautiously, dreading the answer but not fearful enough to keep the question behind his teeth.

“Because,” the Armorer continues, her voice almost thoughtful. “Whether it is to be believed or not, your actions as Mand’alor have spared us from this fate -- since you’ve not only brought us back from the edge of extinction, but soon enough, I believe there will be no distinction between Mandalorian and Jedi.” 

Din’s posture deflates, and he huffs a laugh behind his helmet, shaking his head from side-to-side. 

“That’s an awful way to give someone a compliment,” he tells her dryly.

\--

With the meeting done, he goes to collect the Child from Cara’s care. “Oh, this is a good trade,” Cara observes smugly, passing the baby on to Din and wrapping her arm around her wife instead. “I just got a call about a job, by the way, and Karga asked about you.” 

“He’s always asking,” Din observes dryly, pulling the Child closer as he coos in delight. “Did you tell him he couldn’t afford me?”

“Not exactly,” Cara replies, unable to help a smirk. “He’s a little upset you didn’t invite him to your wedding, though.”

“I didn’t invite anyone,” Din reminds bluntly. If he could’ve managed it, he would’ve rescinded invites instead.

Rolling her eyes, Cara chuckles under her breath. “Well, he wants to send you a gift.”

“I’d rather he didn’t.”

“Too late, it’s on its way.” Cara winks at him, waving her hand as she leads the Armorer away, and Din’s shoulders slump as he watches them go.

Great.

He glances down at the Child in his arms, as if looking for some sort of validation, and all he gets is a set of perked ears and curious eyes.

It makes him feel better anyway. 

“ _Buir!”_

Din turns just in time to prevent his second son from colliding face-first into his armour. The arm not occupied with holding the baby reaches up, stalling his enthusiastic momentum with a clumsy embrace against his side. 

“Finn,” he groans softly, too endeared to be truly chastising. “Slow down. Why aren’t you in class?” 

Finn’s bright, smiling face beams up at him and Din can hardly bring himself to reprimand him properly. There’s too much of Luke in his face whenever Din looks at him, and it makes him softer than he ought to be. Even aside from that same power that the two of them share, they’re alike in so many ways -- and it’s little wonder what drew them to each other. 

“ _N'eparavu takisit,”_ Finn says, simultaneously shy and buzzing with excitement, his hands grabbing eager fistfuls of Din’s cloak.

Well. One difference is how Finn’s already much better with Mando’a. 

“That’s new,” Din praises, reaching to ruffle the tight curls of his hair as he teases him. “Did you learn anything else before you ran away to show me?”

“ _Buir,_ ” Finn protests with a laugh.

“Class is important,” Din emphasizes, though it’s never any surprise to him that the boy so often slips his teacher’s notice to seek his family out instead. The kinder, gentler version of it is that Finn simply has too much energy, and he’s too eager to show his parents what he’s learned. The more grim version is that sometimes sitting in class feels a bit too much like whatever suffocating indoctrination he endured, and he flees when it starts to overwhelm him.

Everything takes time.

Today doesn’t seem like that, however; Finn’s excitement isn’t masking any nervousness, but remains purely genuine instead. Finn shakes his head, tugging on Din’s cloak as he bounces on his heels. “I had to go,” Finn insists. “Dad’s back! We gotta go see him!” 

Din pauses and he tilts his head as he gazes down at him. “Who told you that?” he asks suspiciously, since the idea of word passing to his son before he knows it himself seems outright absurd. 

“No one,” Finn says immediately, which doesn’t ease Din’s curiosity in the slightest.

On some stupid impulse, Din head tips skyward, uncomprehending. “Did you see his ship?” 

“No,” Finn says, with a growing impatience as he pulls on Din’s cloak. “ _Buir,_ come on!” 

“Then how do y--” Din cuts himself off and just stares at him for a moment-- then his shoulders slump. 

Ah. 

He feels stupid for not thinking of it sooner. “Right,” he sighs fondly, prying one of Finn’s hands from his cloak and taking it in his own instead. “Let’s go then.”

\--

Not that long ago, Din would have confidently said that he’s accustomed to being alone. Despite being raised with the Tribe, and the teams in his early time with the Fighting Corps, too much of his work relied on his independence. At that time, Din wouldn’t have admitted to any personal grievance -- all too easy to fall back on an old adage: this is the Way. 

Now, Luke has been gone for a little over a month, his absence sitting on him like a weight -- and the idea of seeing him again feels like an unmeasurable relief. 

They end up meeting halfway at the house, and when Din sees him… 

Luke, beaming and blissful, waves with his gloved hand, and Din’s chest twists with an almost agonizing affection. The sun catches in his hair, painting the usual dusty blond into a warmer, richer shade of gold. He smiles at the sight of them, his face lighting up with a true, sincere joy that Din never saw grace his handsome features until he first put his armour on. 

The armour that strikes such an ominous image that doesn’t at all align with the man who wears it. Luke, golden-haired, bright-eyed and impossibly kind, looks terribly like a contradiction with the mythosaur wrapped around him. Din knows better; the simple truth is that the armour reflects everything Luke means to him. Din looks at him and he remembers what it felt like to see him that day in the desert: cloaked and concentrated yet somehow utterly serene as he raised the mythosaur before him, weightless and eerie -- like some strange phantom from eons past returning to deliver an omen.

Din had been stupid to try to lie to himself; after what he saw that day… how could he not have been in love with him?

Finn races off to meet him first, and Luke crouches to his knees to catch him in arms, laughing as he lifts him up. Finn immediately starts talking and talking, filling in every moment that he’s missed, and Luke hangs on every word, smiling hugely as he hugs him close. 

Walking at a much more reasonable pace, Din joins them shortly after, and the Child in Din’s arms reaches for Luke with almost demanding insistence. “Hi,” Din greets simply, feeling a little foolish for how his pulse races at the simple act of seeing him again.

“Hi,” Luke replies innocently, both arms now sufficiently full of very greedy children. Leaning over them, Luke bumps their foreheads together, and Din’s heart rattles against his ribs. 

“Oh, here,” he says distractedly, setting both of them down. “You want to see what I found when I was gone?” 

Luke turns to his droid, digging through the luggage he’s towing behind him, and what he retrieves gives Din pause. 

“You spent this long away,” Din replies dully, “To come home with a rock?” 

Luke gives him a look, and his expression melts into something much kinder as he turns to Finn. “It’s a kyber crystal,” he tells him, offering it out to him. “They’re hard to come by now, and they’re used to make--” 

“A lightsaber!” Finn announces delightedly, one hand accepting the gift while the other scoops up the Child. “Thank you!” 

With his arms full, Finn hurries off, and Luke fumbles a little as he shouts after him. “Be careful with it,” he entreats, before he gives a sigh of defeat. Placing his hands on his hips, he glances at Din. 

“I don’t know what he’s going to do with that. It’s not very exciting before you build something with it,” he explains dryly. “It’s really not a toy. Unless he wants to just stare at it for the rest of the day.”

“He probably will,” Din replies bluntly, and Luke huffs in agreement. 

The two of them stand like that for a moment, and a smile slowly takes over Luke’s face. Placing a hand on Din’s chest, he pushes, backing Din up until he’s stepping into the house. Once the door closes behind them, Din _feels_ the lock at the base of his helmet click, and it’s lifted weightlessly from his head to land in Luke’s gloved and waiting hand.

“That’s rude,” Din tells him flatly, and Luke laughs. 

Hair messed and eyes darkened from a month of tending to two eagerly would-be Jedi on his own, Din hardly imagines he’s a welcoming picture. Still, Luke smiles at him like every time is the first time, his fingers touching the line of his jaw with a certain reverence. 

“I missed you,” he tells him, and Din sighs, tension bleeding out from his frame as he leans into Luke’s palm. 

“I missed you too,” he replies quietly, and he loses his voice to a soft sound as Luke leans in to press their lips together. 

Luke utters a sigh. He’s slow to start, soft and shallow, then the longing left by his absence quickly bleeds in, and he kisses Din with a certain sort of hunger: deep and seeking, as if he needs to re-acquaint himself with the shape of Din’s mouth. Din hums quietly, his hand finding Luke’s hip, tracing the gap in his armour. 

“No matter where I go,” Luke breaks the kiss to murmur against his lips, “And how many places I see -- nothing compares to here.” He leans back and smiles at him, framing Din’s face in his palms. “You know that, right?” 

Din watches Luke, his head tilting. Even now, when Luke looks at him like that, his chest twists with disbelief. The idea of Luke, with all of his light, with this radiance that seems to spread to everything he touches, choosing to be here, choosing to be _with Din_ \-- is still somehow just as overwhelming. He could be something luminous, something far beyond his reach and understanding, but here he is: real and warm and leaning into his arms. 

“I know,” Din replies quietly, and he bends his head: letting their foreheads bump together. 

“Welcome home, Luke.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'd like to thank everyone for getting this far! I didn't expect this fic to turn out as long as this, or to receive such a wonderful, receptive audience. It really means a lot to me and I'm grateful for every comment I've received. 
> 
> If you'd like, you can follow me on Tumblr (@mudhorns)
> 
> \--  
>    
> This is an update as of the s2 finale: wow! Haha. This is incredible. When I wrote this in last year, I didn't anticipate this sort of reaction. I really took it as a personal project and didn't anticipate maybe more than a handful of people caring about my odd niche ship idea. Now... here we are! Haha. I am sincerely grateful for every comment, and I do read all of them, but I can't possibly keep up with replying. Please do know that I appreciate every single person who takes the time to say something here. It means a lot to me. 
> 
> Thank you so much again!


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